It was very quiet within the little room perched high up under the
roof of Wallater's Buildings. Even the glowing logs in the grate
burned tranquilly, without any of those brisk cracklings and
sputterings which make such cheerful company of a fire, while the
distant roar of London's traffic came murmuringly, dulled to a gentle
monotone by the honeycomb of narrow side streets that intervened
between the gaunt, red-brick Buildings and the bustling highways of
the city.

It seemed almost as though the little room were waiting for something
--some one, just as the woman seated in the low chair at the
hearthside was waiting.

She sat very still, looking towards the door, her folded hands lying
quietly on her knees in an attitude of patient expectancy. It was as
if, although she found the waiting long and wearisome, she were yet
quite sure she would not have to wait in vain.

Once she bent forward and touched the little finger of her left hand,
which bore, at its base, a slight circular depression such as comes
from the constant wearing of a ring. She rubbed it softly with the
forefinger of the other hand.

"He will come," she muttered. "He promised he would come if ever I
sent the little pearl ring."

Then she leaned back once more, resuming her former attitude of
patient waiting, and the insistent silence, momentarily broken by her
movement, settled down again upon the room.

Presently the long rays of the westering sun crept round the edge of
some projecting eaves and, slanting in suddenly through the window,
rested upon the quiet figure in the chair.

Even in their clear, revealing light it would have been difficult to
decide the woman's age, so worn and lined was the mask-like face
outlined against the shabby cushion. She looked forty, yet there was
something still girlish in the pose of her black-clad figure which
seemed to suggest a shorter tale of years. Raven dark hair, lustreless
and dull, framed a pale, emaciated face from which ill-health had
stripped almost all that had once been beautiful. Only the immense
dark eyes, feverishly bright beneath the sunken temples, and the still
lovely line from jaw to pointed chin, remained unmarred, their beauty
mocked by the pinched nostrils and drawn mouth, and by the scraggy,
almost fleshless throat.

It might have been the face of a dead woman, so still, so waxen was
it, were it not for the eager brilliance of the eyes. In them, fixed
watchfully upon the closed door, was concentrated the whole vitality
of the failing body.

Beyond that door, flight upon flight of some steps dropped seemingly
endlessly one below the other, leading at last to a cement-floored
vestibule, cheerless and uninviting, which opened on to the street.

Perhaps there was no particular reason why the vestibule should have
been other than it was, seeing that Wallater's Buildings had not been
designed for the habitual loiterer. For such as he there remains
always the "luxurious entrance-hall" of hotel advertisement.

As far as the inhabitants of "Wallater's" were concerned, they
clattered over the cement flooring of the vestibule in the mornings,
on their way to work, without pausing to cast an eye of criticism upon
its general aspect of uncomeliness, and dragged tired feet across it
in an evening with no other thought but that of how many weary steps
there were to climb before the room which served as "home" should be
attained.

But to the well-dressed, middle-aged man who now paused, half in
doubt, on the threshold of the Buildings, the sordid-looking
vestibule, with its bare floor and drab-coloured walls, presented an
epitome of desolation.

His keen blue eyes, in one of which was stuck a monocle attached to a
broad black ribbon, rested appraisingly upon the ascending spiral of
the stone stairway that vanished into the gloomy upper reaches of the
Building.

Against this chill background there suddenly took shape in his mind
the picture of a spacious room, fragrant with the scent of roses--a
room full of mellow tints of brown and gold, athwart which the
afternoon sunlight lingered tenderly, picking out here the limpid blue
of a bit of old Chinese "blue-and-white," there the warm gleam of
polished copper, or here again the bizarre, gem-encrusted image of an
Eastern god. All that was rare and beautiful had gone to the making of
the room, and rarer and more beautiful than all, in the eyes of the
man whose memory now recalled it, had been the woman to whom it had
belonged, whose loveliness had glowed within it like a jewel in a rich
setting.

With a mental jolt his thoughts came back to the present, to the bare,
commonplace ugliness of Wallater's Buildings.

"My God!" he muttered. "Pauline--here!"

Then with swift steps he began the ascent of the stone steps,
gradually slackening in pace until, when he reached the summit and
stood facing that door behind which a woman watched and waited, he had
perforce to pause to regain his breath, whilst certain twinges in his
right knee reminded him that he was no longer as young as he had been.

In answer to his knock a low voice bade him enter, and a minute later
he was standing in the quiet little room, his eyes gazing levelly into
the feverish dark ones of the woman who had risen at his entrance.

"So!" she said, while an odd smile twisted her bloodless lips. "You
have come, after all. Sometimes--I began to doubt if you would. It is
days--an eternity since I sent for you."

"I have been away, he replied simply. "And my mail was not forwarded.
I came directly I received the ring--at once, as I told you I should."

"Well, sit down and let us talk"--impatiently. "it doesn't matter--
nothing matters since you have come in time."

"In time? What do you mean? In time for what? Pauline, tell me"--
advancing a step--"tell me, in God's Name, what are you doing in this
place?" He glanced significantly round the shabby room with its
threadbare carpet and distempered walls.

"I'm living here--"

"Living here? You?"

"Yes. Why not? Soon"--indifferently--"I shall be dying here. It is, at
least, as good a place to die in as any other."

"Dying?" The man's pleasant baritone voice suddenly shook. "Dying? Oh,
no, no! You've been ill--I can see that--but with care and good
nursing--"

"Don't deceive yourself, my friend," she interrupted him
remorselessly. "See, come to the window. Now look at me--and then
don't talk any more twaddle about care and good nursing!"

She had drawn him towards the window, till they were standing together
in the full blaze of the setting sun. Then she turned and faced him--a
gaunt wreck of splendid womanhood, her fingers working nervously,
whilst her too brilliant eyes, burning in their grey, sunken, sockets,
searched his face curiously.

"You've worn better than I have," she observed at last, breaking the
silence with a short laugh. "you must be--let me see--fifty. While I'm
barely thirty-one--and I look forty--and the rest."

Suddenly he reached out and gathered her thin, restless hands into
his, holding them in a kind, firm clasp.

"Oh, my dear!" he said sadly. "Is there nothing I can do?"

"Yes," she answered steadily. "There is. And it's to ask you if you
will do it that I sent for you. Do you suppose"--she swallowed,
battling with the tremor in her voice--"that I wanted you to see me
--as I am now? It was months--months before I could bring myself to
send you the little pearl ring."

He stooped and kissed one of the hands he held.

"Dear, foolish woman! You would always be--just Pauline--to me."

Her eyes softened suddenly.

"So you never married, after all?"

He straightened his shoulders, meeting her glance squarely--almost
sternly.

"Did you imagine that I should?" he asked quietly.

"No, no, I suppose not." She looked away. "What a mess I made of
things, didn't I? However, it's all past now; the game's nearly over,
thank Heaven! Life, since that day"--the eyes of the man and woman met
again in swift understanding--"has been one long hell."

"He--the man you married--"

"Made that hell. I left him after six years of it, taking the child
with me."

"The child?" A curious expression came into his eyes, resentful, yet
tinged at the same time with an oddly tender interest. "Was there a
child?"

"Yes--I have a little daughter."

"And did your husband never trace you?" he asked, after a pause.

"He never tried to"--grimly. "Afterwards--well, it was downhill all
the way. I didn't know how to work, and by that time I had learned my
health was going. Since then, I've lived on the proceeds of the
pawnshop--I had my jewels, you know--and on the odd bits of money I
could scrape together by taking in sewing."

A groan burst from the man's dry lips.

"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Pauline, Pauline, it was cruel of you to keep
me in ignorance! I could at least have helped."

She shook her head.

"I couldn't take--your money," she said quietly. "I was too proud
for that. But, dear friend"--as she saw him wince--"I'm not proud any
longer. I think Death very soon shows us how little--pride--matters;
it falls into its right perspective when one is nearing the end of
things. I'm so little proud now that I've sent for you to ask your
help."

"Anything--anything!" he said eagerly.

"It's rather a big thing that I'm going to ask, I'm afraid. I want
you," she spoke slowly, as though to focus his attention, "to take
care of my child--when I am gone."

He stared at her doubtfully.

"But her father? Will he consent?" he asked.

"He is dead. I received the news of his death six months ago. There is
no one--no one who has any claim upon her. And no one upon whom she
has any claim, poor little atom!"--smiling rather bitterly. "Ah! Don't
deny me!"--her thin, eager hands clung to his--"don't deny me--say
that you'll take her!"

"Deny you? But, of course I shan't deny you. I'm only thankful that
you have turned to me at last--that you have not quite forgotten!"

"Forgotten?" Her voice vibrated. "Believe me or not, as you will,
there has never been a day for nine long years when I have not
remembered--never a night when I have not prayed God to bless
you----" She broke off, her mouth working uncontrollably.

Very quietly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms. There was no
passion in the caress--for was it not eventide, and the lengthening
shadows of night already fallen across her path?--but there was
infinite love, and forgiveness, and understanding. . . .

"And now, may I see her--the little daughter?"

The twilight had gathered about them during that quiet hour of
reunion, wherein old hurts had been healed, old sins forgiven, and now
at last they had come back together out of the past to the recognition
of all that yet remained to do.

There came a sound of running footsteps on the stairs outside--light,
eager steps, buoyant with youth, that evidently found no hardship in
the long ascent from the street level.

"Hark!" The woman paused, her head a little turned to listen. "Here
she comes. No one else on this floor"--with a whimsical smile--"could
take the last flight of those awful stairs at a run."

The door flew open, and the man received an impressionist picture of
which the salient features were a mop of black hair, a scarlet jersey,
and a pair of abnormally long black legs.

Then the door closed with a bang, and the blur of black and scarlet
resolved itself into a thin, eager-faced child of eight, who paused
irresolutely upon perceiving a stranger in the room.

"Come here, kiddy," the woman held out her hand. "This"--and her eyes
sought those of the man as though beseeching confirmation--"is your
uncle."

The child advanced and shook hands politely, then stood still, staring
at this unexpectedly acquired relative.

Her sharp-pointed face was so thin and small that her eyes, beneath
their straight, dark brows, seemed to be enormous--black, sombre eyes,
having no kinship with the intense, opaque brown so frequently
miscalled black, but suggestive of the vibrating darkness of night
itself.

Instinctively the man's glance wandered to the face of the child's
mother.

"You think her like me?" she hazarded.

"She is very like you," he assented gravely.

A wry smile wrung her mouth.

"Let us hope that the likeness is only skin-deep, then!" she said
bitterly. "I don't want her life to be--as mine has been."

"If," he said gently, "if you will trust her to me, Pauline, I swear
to you that I will do all in my power to save her from--what you've
suffered."

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"It's all a matter of character," she said nonchalantly.

"Yes," he agreed simply. Then he turned to the child, who was standing
a little distance away from him, eyeing him distrustfully. "What do
you say, child! You wouldn't be afraid to come and live with me, would
you?"

"I am never afraid of people," she answered promptly. "Except the man
who comes for the rent; he is fat, and red, and a beast. But I'd
rather go on living with Mumsy, thank you--Uncle." The designation
came after a brief hesitation. "You see," she added politely, as
though fearful that she might have hurt his feelings, "we've always
lived together." She flung a glance of almost passionate adoration at
her mother, who turned towards the man, smiling a little wistfully.

"You see how it is with her?" she said. "She lives by her affections--
conversely from her mother, her heart rules her head. You will be
gentle with her, won't you, when the wrench comes?"

"My dear," he said, taking her hand in his and speaking with the quiet
solemnity of a man who vows himself before some holy altar, "I shall
never forget that she is your child--the child of the woman I love."

The dewy softness of early morning still hung about the woods, veiling
their autumn tints in broken, drifting swathes of pearly mist, while
towards the east, where the rising sun pushed long, dim fingers of
light into the murky greyness of the sky, a tremulous golden haze grew
and deepened.

Little, delicate twitterings vibrated on the air--the sleepy chirrup
of awakening birds, the rustle of a fallen leaf beneath the pad of
some belated cat stealing back to the domestic hearth, the stir of a
rabbit in its burrow.

Presently these sank into insignificance beside a more definite sound
--the crackle of dry leaves and the snapping of twigs beneath a
heavier footfall than that of any marauding Tom, and through a
clearing in the woods slouched the figure of a man, gun on shoulder,
the secret of his bulging side-pockets betrayed by the protruding tail
feathers of a cock-pheasant.

He was not an attractive specimen of mankind. Beneath the peaked cap,
crammed well down on to his head, gleamed a pair of surly, watchful
eyes, and, beneath these again, the unshaven, brutal, out-thrust jaw
offered little promise of better things.

Nor did his appearance in any way belie his reputation, which was
unsavory in the extreme. Indeed, if report spoke truly, "Black Brady,"
as he was commonly called, had on one occasion only escaped the
gallows thanks to the evidence of a village girl--one who had loved
him recklessly, to her own undoing. Every one had believed her
evidence to be false, but, as she had stuck to what she said through
thick and thin, and as no amount of cross-examination had been able to
shake her, Brady had contrived to slip through the hands of the
police.

Conceiving, however, that, after this episode, the air of his native
place might prove somewhat insalubrious for a time, he had migrated
thence to Fallowdene, establishing himself in a cottage on the
outskirts of the village and finding the major portion of his
sustenance by skillfully poaching the preserves of the principal
landowners of the surrounding district.

On this particular morning he was well content with his night's work.
He had raided the covers of one Patrick Lovell, the owner of Barrow
Court, who, although himself a confirmed invalid and debarred from all
manner of sport, employed two or three objectionably lynx-eyed keepers
to safeguard his preserves for the benefit of his heirs and assigns.

No covers were better stocked than those of Barrow Court, but Brady
rarely risked replenishing his larder from them, owing to the extreme
wideawakeness of the head gamekeeper. It was therefore not without a
warm glow of satisfaction about the region of his heart that he made
his way homeward through the early morning, reflecting on the ease
with which last night's marauding expedition had been conducted. He
even pursed his lips together and whistled softly--a low, flute-like
sound that might almost have been mistaken for the note of a
blackbird.

But it is unwise to whistle before you are out of the wood, and
Brady's triumph was short-lived. Swift as a shadow, a lithe figure
darted out from among the trees and planted itself directly in his
path.

With equal swiftness, Brady brought his gunstock to his shoulder. Then
he hesitated, finger on trigger, for the lion in his path was no burly
gamekeeper, as, for the first moment, he had supposed. It was a woman
who faced him--a mere girl of twenty, whose slender figure looked
somehow boyish in its knitted sports coat and very short, workmanlike
skirt. The suggestion of boyishness was emphasized by her attitude, as
she stood squarely planted in front of Black Brady, her hands thrust
deep into her pockets, her straight young back very flat, and her head
a little tilted, so that her eyes might search the surly face beneath
the peaked cap.

They were arresting eyes--amazingly dark, "like two patches o' the sky
be night," as Brady described them long afterwards to a crony of his,
and they gazed up at the astonished poacher from a small, sharply
angled face, as delicately cut as a cameo.

"Put that gun down!" commanded an imperious young voice, a voice that
held something indescribably sweet and thrilling in its vibrant
quality. "What are you doing in these woods?"

Brady, recovering from his first surprise, lowered his gun, but
answered truculently--

"Never you mind what I'm doin'."

The girl pointed significantly to his distended pockets.

"I don't need to ask. Empty out your pockets and take yourself off. Do
you hear?" she added sharply, as the man made no movement to obey.

"I shan't do nothin' o' the sort," he growled. "You go your ways and
leave me to go mine--or it'll be the worse for 'ee." He raised his gun
threateningly.

The girl smiled.

"I'm not in the least afraid of that gun," she said tranquilly. "But
you are afraid to use it," she added.

"Am I?" He wheeled suddenly, and, on the instant, a deafening report
shattered the quiet of the woods. Then the smoke drifted slowly aside,
revealing the man and the girl face to face once more.

But although she still stood her ground, dark shadows had suddenly
painted themselves beneath her eyes, and the slight young breast
beneath the jaunty sports coat rose and fell unevenly. Within the
shelter of her coat-pockets her hands were clenched tightly.

"That was a waste of a good cartridge," she observed quietly. "You
only fired in the air."

Black Brady glared at her.

"If I'd liked, I could 'ave killed 'ee as easy as knockin' a bird off
a bough," he said sullenly.

"You could," she agreed. "And then I should have been dead and you
would have been waiting for a hanging. Of the two, I think my position
would have been the more comfortable."

A look of unwilling admiration spread itself slowly over the man's
face.

"You be a cool 'and, and no mistake," he acknowledged. "I thought to
frighten you off by firin'."

The girl nodded.

"Well, as you haven't, suppose you allow that I've won and that it's
up to me to dictate terms. If my uncle were to see you--"

"I'm not comin' up to the house--don't you think it, win or no win,"
broke in Brady hastily.

The girl regarded him judicially.

"I don't think we particularly want you up at the house," she
remarked. "If you'll do as I say--empty your pockets--you may go."

The man reluctantly made as though to obey, but even while he
hesitated, he saw the girl's eyes suddenly look past him, over his
shoulder, and, turning suspiciously, he swung straight into the brawny
grip of the head keeper, who, hearing a shot fired, had deserted his
breakfast and hurried in the direction of the sound and now came up
close behind him.

"Caught this time, Brady, my man," chuckled the keeper triumphantly.
"It's gaol for you this journey, as sure's my name's Clegg. Has the
fellow been annoying you, Miss Sara?" he added, touching his hat
respectfully as he turned towards the girl, whilst with his other hand
he still retained his grip of Brady's arm.

She laughed as though suddenly amused.

"Nothing to speak of, Clegg," she replied. "And I'm afraid you mustn't
send him to prison this time. I told him if he would empty his pockets
he might go. That still holds good," she added, looking towards Brady,
who flashed her a quick look of gratitude from beneath his heavy brows
and proceeded to turn out the contents of his pockets with commendable
celerity.

But the keeper protested against the idea of releasing his prisoner.

"It's a fair cop, miss," he urged entreatingly.

"Can't help it, Clegg. I promised. So you must let him go."

The man obeyed with obvious reluctance. Then, when Brady had hastened
to make himself scarce, he turned and scrutinized the girl curiously.

"You all right, Miss Sara? Shall I see you up to the house?"

"No, thanks, Clegg," she said. "I'm--I'm quite all right. You can go
back to your breakfast."

"Very good, miss." He touched his hat and plunged back again into the
woods.

The girl stood still, looking after him. She was rather white, but she
remained very erect and taut until the keeper had disappeared from
view. Then the tense rigidity of her figure slackened, as a stretched
wire slackens when the pull on it suddenly ceases, and she leaned
helpless against the trunk of a tree, limp and shaking, every fine-
strung nerve ajar with the strain of her recent encounter with Black
Brady. As she felt her knees giving way weakly beneath her, a dogged
little smile twisted her lips.

"You are a cool 'and, and no mistake," she whispered shakily, an
ironical gleam flickering in her eyes.

She propped herself up against the friendly tree, and, after a few
minutes, the quick throbbing of her heard steadied down and the colour
began to steal back into her lips. At length she stooped, and, picking
up her hat, which had fallen off and lay on the ground at her feet,
she proceeded to make her way through the woods in the direction of
the house.

Barrow Court, as the name implied, was situated on the brow of a hill,
sheltered from the north and easterly winds by a thick belt of pines
which half-encircled it, for ever murmuring and whispering together as
pine-trees will.

To Sara Tennant, the soft, sibilant noise was a beloved and familiar
sound. From the first moment when, as a child, she had come to live at
Barrow, the insistent murmur of the pines had held an extraordinary
fascination for her. That, and their pungent scent, seemed to be
interwoven with her whole life there, like the thread of some single
colour that persists throughout the length of a woven fabric.

She had been desperately miserable and lonely at the time of her
advent at the Court; and all through the long, wakeful vigil of her
first night, it had seemed to her vivid, childish imagination as
though the big, swaying trees, bleakly etched against the moonlit sky,
had understood her desolation and had whispered and crooned
consolingly outside her window. Since then, she had learned that the
voice of the pines, like the voice of the sea, is always pitched in a
key that responds to the mood of the listener. If you chance to be
glad, then the pines will whisper of sunshine and summer, little love
idylls that one tree tells to another, but if your heart is heavy
within you, you will hear only a dirge in the hush of their waving
tops.

As Sara emerged from the shelter of the woods, her eyes instinctively
sought the great belt of trees that crowned the opposite hill, with
the grey bulk of the house standing out in sharp relief against their
eternal green. A little smile of pure pleasure flitted across her
face; to her there was something lovable and rather charming about the
very architectural inconsistencies which prevented Barrow Court from
being, in any sense of the word, a show place.

The central portion of the house, was comparatively modern, built of
stone in solid Georgian fashion, but quaintly flanked at either end by
a massive, mediaeval tower, survival of the good old days when the
Lovells of Fallowdene had held their own against all comers, not even
excepting, in the case of one Roderic, his liege lord and master the
King, the latter having conceived a not entirely unprovoked desire to
deprive him of his lands and liberty--a desire destined, however, to
be frustrated by the solid masonry of Barrow.

A flagged terrace ran the whole length of the long, two-storied house,
broadening out into wide wings at the base of either tower, and, below
the terrace, green, shaven lawns, dotted with old yew, sloped down to
the edge of a natural lake which lay in the hollow of the valley,
gleaming like a sheet of silver in the morning sunlight.

Prim walks, bordered by high box hedges, intersected the carefully
tended gardens, and along one of these Sara took her way, quickening
her steps to a run as the booming summons of a gong suddenly
reverberated on the air.

She reached the house, flushed and a little breathless, and, tossing
aside her hat as she sped through the big, oak-beamed hall, hurried
into a pleasant, sunshiny room, where a couple of menservants were
moving quietly about, putting the finishing touches to the breakfast
table.

An invalid's wheeled chair stood close to the open window, and in it,
with a rug tucked about his knees, was seated an elderly man of some
sixty-two or three years of age. He was leaning forward, giving
animated instructions to a gardener who listened attentively from the
terrace outside, and his alert, eager, manner contrasted oddly with
the helplessness of limb indicated by the necessity for the wheeled
chair.

"That's all, Digby," he said briskly. "I'll go through the hot-houses
myself some time to-day."

As he spoke, he signed to one of the footmen in the room to close the
window, and then propelled his chair with amazing rapidity to the
table.

The instant and careful attention accorded to his commands by both
gardener and servant was characteristic of every one in Patrick
Lovell's employment. Although he had been a more or less helpless
invalid for seven years, he had never lost his grip of things. He was
exactly as much master of Barrow Court, the dominant factor there, as
he had been in the good times that were gone, when no day's shooting
had been too long for him, no run with hounds too fast.

He sat very erect in his wheeled chair, a handsome, well-groomed old
aristocrat. Clean-shaven, except for a short, carefully trimmed
moustache, grizzled like his hair, his skin exhibited the waxen pallor
which so often accompanies chronic ill-health, and his face was
furrowed by deep lines, making him look older than his sixty-odd
years. His vivid blue eyes were extraordinarily keen and penetrating;
possibly they, and the determined, squarish jaw, were answerable for
that unquestioning obedience which was invariably accorded him.

She laughed, putting up a careless hand to brush back the heavy tress
of dark hair that had fallen forward over her forehead.

"I've had an adventure," she answered, and proceeded to recount her
experience with Black Brady. When she reached the point where the man
had fired off his gun, Patrick interrupted explosively.

"The infernal scoundrel! That fellow will dangle at the end of a rope
one of these days--and deserve it, too. He's a murderous ruffian--a
menace to the countryside."

"He only fired into the air--to frighten me," explained Sara.

Her uncle looked at her curiously.

"And did he succeed?" he asked.

She bestowed a little grin of understanding upon him.

"He did," she averred gravely. Then, as Patrick's bushy eyebrows came
together in a bristling frown, she added: "But he remained in
ignorance of the fact."

The frown was replaced by a twinkle.

"That's all right, then," came the contented answer.

"All the same, I really was frightened," she persisted. "It gave me
quite a nasty turn, as the servants say. I don't think"--meditatively
--"that I enjoy being shot at. Am I a funk, my uncle?"

"No, my niece"--with some amusement. "On the contrary, I should define
the highest type of courage as self-control in the presence of danger
--not necessarily absence of fear. The latter is really no more credit
to you than eating your dinner when you're hungry."

"Mine, then, I perceive to be the highest type of courage," chuckled
Sara. "It's a comforting reflection."

It was, when propounded by Patrick Lovell, to whom physical fear was
an unknown quantity. Had he lived in the days of the Terror, he would
assuredly have taken his way to the guillotine with the same gay,
debonair courage which enabled the nobles of France to throw down
their cards and go to the scaffold with a smiling promise to the other
players that they would continue their interrupted game in the next
world.

And when Sara had come to live with Patrick, a dozen years ago, he had
rigorously inculcated in her youthful mind a contempt for every form
of cowardice, moral and physical.

It had not been all plain sailing, for Sara was a highly strung child,
with the vivid imagination that is the primary cause of so much that
is carelessly designated cowardice. But Patrick had been very wise in
his methods. He had never rebuked her for lack of courage; he had
simply taken it for granted that she would keep her grip of herself.

Sara's thoughts slid back to an incident which had occurred during
their early days together. She had been very much alarmed by the
appearance of a huge mastiff who was permitted the run of the house,
and her uncle, noticing her shrinking avoidance of the rather
formidable looking beast, had composedly bidden her take him to the
stables and chain him up. For an instant the child had hesitated.
Then, something in the man's quiet confidence that she would obey had
made its claim on her childish pride, and, although white to the lips,
she had walked straight up to the great creature, hooked her small
fingers into his collar, and marched him off to his kennel.

Courage under physical pain she had learned from seeing Patrick
contend with his own infirmity. He suffered intensely at times, but
neither groan nor word of complaint was ever allowed to escape his set
lips. Only Sara would see, after what he described as "one of my damn
bad days, m'dear," new lines added to the deepening network that had
so aged his appearance lately.

At these times she herself endured agonies of reflex suffering and
apprehension, since her attachment to Patrick Lovell was the moving
factor of her existence. Other girls had parents, brothers and
sisters, and still more distant relatives upon whom their capacity for
loving might severally expend itself. Sara had none of these, and the
whole devotion of her intensely ardent nature lavished itself upon the
man whom she called uncle.

Their mutual attitude was something more than the accepted
relationship implied. They were friends--these two--intimate friends,
comrades on an equal footing, respecting each other's reserves and
staunchly loyal to one another. Perhaps this was accounted for in a
measure by the very fact that they were united by no actual bond of
blood. That Sara was Patrick's niece by adoption was all the
explanation of her presence at Barrow Court that he had ever
vouchsafed to the world in general, and it practically amounted to the
sum total of Sara's own knowledge of the matter.

Hers had been a life of few relationships. She had no recollection of
any one who had ever stood towards her in the position of a father,
and though she realized that the one-time existence of such a
personage must be assumed, she had never felt much curiosity
concerning him.

The horizon of her earliest childhood had held but one figure, that of
an adored mother, and "home" had been represented by a couple of
meager rooms at the top of a big warren of a place known as Wallater's
Buildings, tenanted principally by families of the artisan class.

Thus debarred by circumstances from the companionship of other
children, Sara's whole affections had centred round her mother, and
she had never forgotten the sheer, desolating anguish of that moment
when the dreadful, unresponsive silence of the sheeted figure, lying
in the shabby little bedroom they had shared together, brought home to
her the significance of death.

She had not cried, as most children of eight would have done, but she
had suffered in a kind of frozen silence, incapable of any outward
expression of grief.

"Unfeelin', I call it!" declared the woman who lived on the same floor
as the Tennants, and who had attended at the doctor's behest, to a
friend and neighbour who was occupied in boiling a kettle over a gas-
ring. "Must be a cold-'earted child as can see 'er own mother lyin'
dead without so much as a tear." She sniffed. " 'Aven't you got that
cup o' tea ready yet? I can allus drink a cup o' tea after a layin'-
out."

Sara had watched the two women drinking their tea with brooding eyes,
her small breast heaving with the intensity of her resentment. Without
being in any way able to define her emotions, she felt that there was
something horrible in their frank enjoyment of the steaming liquid,
gulped down to the cheerful accompaniment of a running stream of
intimate gossip, while all the time that quiet figure lay on the
narrow bed--motionless, silent, wrapped in the strange and immense
aloofness of the dead.

Presently one of the women poured out a third cup of tea and pushed it
towards the child, slopping in the thin, bluish-looking milk with a
generous hand.

" 'Ave a cup, child. It's as good a drop o' tea as ever I tasted."

For a moment Sara stared at her speechlessly; then, with a sudden
passionate gesture, she swept the cup on to the floor.

The clash of breaking china seemed to ring through the chamber of
death, the women's voices rose shrilly in reproof, and Sara, fleeing
into the adjoining room, cast herself face downwards upon the floor,
horror-stricken. It was not the raucous anger of the women which she
heeded; that passed her by. But she had outraged some fine,
instinctive sense by reverence that lay deep within her own small
soul.

Still she did not cry. Only, as she lay on the ground with her face
hidden, she kept repeating in a tense whisper--

"You know I didn't mean it, God! You know I didn't mean it!"

It was then that Patrick Lovell had appeared, coming in response to
she knew not what summons, and had taken her away with him. And the
tendrils of her affection, wrenched from their accustomed hold, had
twined themselves about this grey-haired, blue-eyed man, set so apart
by every soigné detail of his person from the shabby, slip-shod
world which Sara had known, but who yet stood beside the bed on which
her mother lay, with a wrung mouth beneath his clipped moustache and a
mist of tears dimming his keen eyes.

Autumn had given place to winter, and a bitter northeast wind was
tearing through the pines, shrieking, as it fled, like the cry of a
lost soul. The eerie sound of it served in some indefinable way to
emphasise the cosy warmth and security of the room where Sara and her
uncle were sitting, their chairs drawn close up to the log fire which
burned on the wide, old-fashioned hearth.

Sara was engrossed in a book, her head bent low above its pages,
unconscious of the keen blue eyes that had been regarding her
reflectively for some minutes.

With the passage of the last two months, Patrick's face seemed to have
grown more waxen, worn a little finer, and now, as he sat quietly
watching the slender figure on the opposite side of the hearth, it
wore a curious, inscrutable expression, as though he were mentally
balancing the pros and cons of some knotty point.

At last he apparently came to a decision, for he laid aside the
newspaper he had been reading a few moments before, muttering half
audibly:

"Must take your fences as you come to 'em."

Sara looked up abstractedly.

"Did you say anything?" she asked doubtfully.

Patrick gave his shoulders a grim shake.

"I'm going to," he replied. "It's something that must be said, and, as
I've never been in favour of postponing a thing just because its
disagreeable, we may as well get it over."

He had focused Sara's attention unmistakably now.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "You haven't had bad news?"

An odd smile crossed his face.

"On the contrary." He hesitated a moment, then continued: "I had a
longish talk with Dr. McPherson yesterday, and the upshot of it is
that I may be required to hand in my checks any day now. I wanted you
to know," he added simply.

It was characteristic of the understanding between these two that
Patrick made no effort to "break the news," or soften it in any way.
He had always been prepared to face facts himself, and he had trained
Sara in the same stern creed.

So that now, when he quietly stated in plain language the thing which
she had been inwardly dreading for some weeks--for, though silent on
the matter, she had not failed to observe his appearance of increasing
frailty--she took it like a thorough-bred. Her eyes dilated a little,
but her voice was quite steady as she said:

"You mean----"

"I mean that before very long I shall put off this vile body." He
glanced down whimsically at his useless legs, cloaked beneath the
inevitable rug. "After all," he continued, "life--and death--are both
fearfully interesting if one only goes to meet them instead of running
away from them. Then they become bogies."

"And what shall I do . . . without you?" she said very low.

"Aye." He nodded. "It's worse for those who are left behind. I've been
one of them, and I know. I remember--" He broke off short, his blue
eyes dreaming. Presently he gave his shoulders the characteristic
little shake which presaged the dismissal of some recalcitrant secret
thought, and went on in quick, practical tones.

"I don't want to go out leaving a lot of loose ends behind me--a
tangle for you to unravel. So, since the fiat has gone forth--
McPherson's a sound man and knows his job--let's face it together,
little old pal. It will mean your leaving Barrow, you know," he added
tentatively.

Sara nodded, her face rather white.

"Yes, I know. I shan't care--then."

"Oh yes, you will"--with shrewd wisdom. "It will be an extra drop in
the bucket, you'll find, when the time comes. Unfortunately, however,
there's no getting round the entail, and when I go, my cousin, Major
Durward, will reign in my stead."

"Why does the Court go to a Durward?" asked Sara listlessly. "Aren't
there any Lovells to inherit?"

"He is a Lovell. His father and mine were brothers, but his godfather,
old Timothy Durward left him his property on condition that he adopted
the name. Geoffrey Durward has a son called Timothy--after the old
man."

"The Durwards have never been here since I came to live with you,"
observed Sara thoughtfully. "Don't you care for him--your cousin, I
mean?"

"Geoffrey? Yes, he's a charming fellow, and he's been a rattling good
soldier--got his D.S.O. in the South African campaign. But he and his
wife--she was a Miss Eden--were stationed in India so many years, I
rather lost touch with them. They came home when the Durward property
fell in to them--about seven or eight years ago. She, I think"--
reminiscently--"was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."

The shadow in Sara's eyes lifted for a moment.

"Is that the reason you've always remained a bachelor?" she asked,
twinkling.

"God bless my soul, no! I never wanted to marry Elisabeth Eden--though
there were plenty of men who did." He regarded Sara with an odd smile.
"Some day, you'll know--why I never wanted to marry Elisabeth."

"Tell me now."

He shook his head.

"No. You'll know soon enough--soon enough."

He was silent, fallen a-dreaming once again; and again he seemed to
pull himself up short, forcing himself back to the consideration of
the practical needs of the moment.

"As I was saying, Sara, sooner or later you'll have to turn out of the
old Court. It's entailed, and the income with it. But I've a clear
four hundred a year, altogether apart from the Barrow moneys, and
that, at my death, will be yours."

"I don't want to hear about it!" burst out Sara passionately. "It's
hateful even talking of such things."

Patrick smiled, amused and a little touched by youth's lack of worldly
wisdom.

"Don't be a fool, my dear. I shan't die a day sooner for having made
my will--and I shall die a deal more comfortably, knowing that you are
provided for. I promised your mother that, as far as lay in my power,
I would shield you from wrecking your life as she wrecked hers. And
money--a secure little income of her own--is a very good sort of
shield for a women. Four hundred's not enough to satisfy a mercenary
individual, but it's enough to enable a woman to marry for love--and
not for a home!" He spoke with a kind of repressed bitterness, as
though memory had stirred into fresh flame the embers of some burnt-
out passion of regret, and Sara looked at him with suddenly aroused
interest.

But apparently Patrick did not sense the question that troubled on her
lips, or, if he did, had no mind to answer it, for he went on in
lighter tones:

"There, that's enough about business for the present. I only wanted
you to know that, whatever happens, you will be all right as far as
bread-and-cheese are concerned."

"I believe you think that's all I should care about!" exclaimed Sara
stormily.

Patrick smiled. He had not been a citizen of the world for over sixty
years without acquiring the grim knowledge that neither intense
happiness nor deep grief suffice to deaden for very long the pinpricks
of material discomfort. But the worldly-wise old man possessed a broad
tolerance for the frailties of human nature, and his smile held
nothing of contempt, but only a whimsical humour touched with kindly
understanding.

"I know you better than that, my dear," he answered quietly. "But I
often think of what I once heard an old working-woman, down in the
village, say. She had just lost her husband, and the rector's wife was
handing out the usual platitudes, and holding forth on the example of
Christian fortitude exhibited by a very wealthy lady in the
neighbourhood, who had also been recently widowed. 'That's all very
well, ma'am,' said my old woman drily, 'but fat sorrow's a deal easier
to bear than lean sorrow.' And though it may sound unromantic, it's
the raw truth--only very few people are sincere enough to acknowledge
it."

In the weeks that followed, Patrick seemed to recover a large measure
of his accustomed vigour. He was extraordinarily alert and cheerful--
so alive that Sara began to hope Dr. McPherson had been mistaken in
his opinion, and that there might yet remain many more good years of
the happy comradeship that existed between herself and her guardian.

Such buoyancy appeared incompatible with the imminence of death, and
one day, driven by the very human instinct to hear her optimism
endorsed, she scoffed a little, tentatively, at the doctor's verdict.

Patrick shook his head.

"No, my dear, he's right," he said decisively. "But I'm not going to
whine about it. Taken all round, I've found life a very good sort of
thing--although"--reflectively--"I've missed the best it has to offer
a man. And probably I'll find death a very good sort of thing, too,
when it comes."

And so Patrick Lovell went forward, his spirit erect, to meet death
with the same cheerful, half-humorous courage he had opposed to the
emergencies of life.

It was a few days after this, on Christmas Eve, that Sara, coming into
his special den with a gay little joke on her lips and a great bunch
of mistletoe in her arms, was arrested by the sudden, chill quiet of
the little room.

The familiar wheeled chair was drawn up to the window, and she could
see the back of Patrick's head with its thick crop of grizzled hair,
but he did not turn or speak at the sound of her entrance.

"Uncle, didn't you hear me? Are you asleep? . . . Uncle!" Her voice
shrilled on to a sharp staccato note, then cracked and broke suddenly.

There came no movement from the chair. The silence remained unbroken
save for the ticking of a clock and the loud beating of her own heart.
The two seemed to merge into one gigantic pulse . . . deafening . . .
overwhelming . . . like the surge of some immense, implacable sea.

She swayed a little, clutching at the door for support. Then the
throbbing ceased, and she was only conscious of a solitude so intense
that it seemed to press about her like a tangible thing.

Swiftly, on feet of terror, she crossed the room and stood looking
down at the motionless figure of her uncle. His face was turned
towards the sun, and wore an expression of complete happiness and
content, as though he had just found something for which he had been
searching. He had looked like that a thousand times, when, seeking for
her, he had come upon her, at last, hidden in some shady nook in the
garden or swinging in her hammock. She could almost hear the familiar
"Oh, there you are, little pal!" with which he would joyously acclaim
her discovery.

She lifted the hand that was resting quietly on his knee. It lay in
hers, flaccid and inert, its dreadful passivity stinging her into
realization of the truth. Patrick was dead. And, judging from his
expression, he had found death "a very good sort of thing," just as he
had expected.

For a little while Sara remained standing quietly beside the still
figure in the chair. They would never be alone together any more--not
quite like this, Patrick sitting in his accustomed place, wearing his
beloved old tweeds, with an immaculate tie and with his single
eyeglass--about which she had so often chaffed him--dangling across
his chest on its black ribbon.

Her mouth quivered. "Stand up to it!" . . . The voice--Patrick's voice
--seemed to sound in her ear . . . "Stand up to it, little old pal!"

She bit back the sob that climbed to her throat, and stood silently
facing the enemy, as it were.

This was the end, then, of one chapter of her existence--the chapter
of sheltered, happy life at Barrow, and in these quiet moments, alone
for the last time with Patrick Lovell, Sara tried to gather strength
and courage from her memories of his cheery optimism to face gamely
whatever might befall her in the big world into which she must so soon
adventure.

It was over. The master of Barrow had been carried shoulder-high to
the great vault where countless Lovells slept their last sleep, the
blinds had been drawn up, letting in the wintry sunlight once again,
and the mourners had gone their ways. Only the new owner of the Court
still lingered, and even he would be leaving very soon now.

Sara, her slim, boyish build, with its long line of slender hip,
accentuated by the clinging black of her gown, moved listlessly across
the hall to where Major Durward was standing smoking by the big open
fire, waiting for the car which was to take him to the station.

He made as though to throw his cigarette away at her approach, but she
gestured a hasty negative.

"No, don't," she said. "I like it. It seems to make things a little
more natural. Uncle Pat"--with a wan smile--"was always smoking."

Her sombre eyes were shadowed and sad, and there was a pinched, drawn
look about her nostrils. Major Durward regarded her with a concerned
expression on his kindly face.

"You will miss him badly," he said.

"Yes, I shall miss him,"--simply. She returned his glance frankly.
"You are very like him, you know," she added suddenly.

It was true. The big, soldierly man beside her, with his jolly blue
eyes, grey hair, and short-clipped military moustache, bore a striking
resemblance to the Patrick Lovell of ten years ago, before ill-health
had laid its finger upon him, and during the difficult days that
succeeded her uncle's death Sara had unconsciously found a strange
kind of comfort in the likeness. She had dreaded inexpressibly the
advent of the future owner of Barrow, but, when he had arrived, his
resemblance to his dead cousin, and a certain similarity of gesture
and of voice, common enough in families, had at once established a
sense of kinship, which had deepened with her recognition of Durward's
genuine kind-heartedness and solicitude for her comfort.

He had immediately assumed control of affairs, taking all the
inevitable detail of arrangement off her shoulders, yet deferring to
her as though she were still just as much mistress of the Court as she
had been before her uncle's death. In every way he had tried to ease
and smooth matters for her, and she felt proportionately grateful to
him.

"Then, if you think I'm like him," said Durward gently, "will you let
me try to take his place a little? I mean," he explained hastily,
fearing she might misunderstand him, "that you will miss his
guardianship and care of you, as well as the good pal you found in
him. Will you let me try to fill in the gaps, if--if you should want
advice, or service--anything over which a male man can be a bit
useful? Oh----" breaking off with a short, embarrassed laugh--"it is
so difficult to explain what I do mean!"

"I think I know," said Sara, smiling faintly. "You mean that now that
Uncle Pat has gone, you don't want me to feel quite adrift in the
world."

The big man, hampered by his masculine shyness of a difficult
situation, smiled back at her, relieved.

"Yes, that's it, that's it!" he agreed eagerly. "I want you to regard
me as a--a sort of sheet-anchor upon which you can pull in a storm."

"Thank you," said Sara. "I will. But I hope there won't be storms of
such magnitude that I shall need to pull very hard."

Durward smoked furiously for a moment. Then he burst forth--

"You can't imagine what a brute I feel for turning you out of the
Court. I wish it need not be. But the Lovells have always lived at the
old place, and my wife--"

"Naturally." She interrupted him gently. "Naturally, she wishes to
live here. I owe you no grudge for that," smiling. "When--how soon do
you think of coming? I will make my arrangements accordingly."

"We should like to come as soon as possible, really," he admitted
reluctantly. "I have the chance of leasing Durward Park, if the tenant
can have what practically amounts to immediate possession. And of
course, in the circumstances, I should be glad to get the Durward
property off my hands."

"Of course you would." Sara nodded understandingly. "If you could let
me have a few days in which to find some rooms--"

"No, no," he broke in eagerly. "I want you still to regard Barrow as
your headquarters--to stay on here with us until you have fixed some
permanent arrangement that suits you."

She was touched by the kindly suggestion; nevertheless, she shook her
head with decision.

"It is more than kind of you to think of such a thing," she said
gratefully. "But it is quite out of the question. Why, I am not even a
cousin several times removed! I have no claim at all. Mrs. Durward--"

"Will be delighted. She asked me to be sure and tell you so. Please,
Miss Tennant, don't refuse me. Don't"--persuasively--"oblige us to
feel more brutal interlopers than we need."

Still she hesitated.

"If I were sure--" she began doubtfully.

"You may be--absolutely sure. There!"--with a sigh of relief--"that's
settled. But, as I can see you're the kind of person whose
conscientious scruples will begin to worry you the moment I'm gone"--
he smiled--"my wife will write to you. Promise not to run away in the
meantime?"

"I promise," said Sara. She held out her hand. "And--thank you." Her
eyes, suddenly misty, supplemented the baldness of the words.

He took the outstretched hand in a close, friendly grip.

"Good. That's the car, I think," as the even purring of a motor
sounded from outside. "I must be off. But it's only au revoir,
remember."

She walked with him to the door, and stood watching until the car was
lost in sight round a bend of the drive. Then, as she turned back into
the hall, the emptiness of the house seemed to close down about her
all at once, like a pall.

Amid the manifold duties and emergencies of the last few days she had
hardly had time to realize the immensity of her loss. Practical
matters had forcibly obtruded themselves upon her consideration--the
necessity of providing accommodation for the various relatives who had
attended the funeral, the frequent consultations that Major Durward,
to all intents and purposes a stranger to the ways of Barrow, had been
obliged to hold with her, the reading of the will--all these had
combined to keep her in a state of mental and physical alertness which
had mercifully precluded retrospective thought.

But now the necessity for doing anything was past; there were no
longer any claims upon her time, nothing to distract her, and she had
leisure to visualize the full significance of Patrick's death and all
that it entailed.

Rather languidly she mounted the stairs to her own room, and drawing
up a low chair to the fire, sat staring absently into its glowing
heart.

Virtually, she was alone in the world. Even Major Durward, who had
been so infinitely kind, was not bound to her by any ties other than
those forged of his own friendly feelings. True, he had been Patrick's
cousin. But Patrick, although he had made up Sara's whole world, had
been entirely unrelated to her.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden rush of intense gratitude towards the
man who had so amply fulfilled his trust as guardian, and she glanced
up wistfully at the big photograph of him which stood upon the
chimney-piece.

Propped against the photo-frame was a square white envelope on which
was written: To be given to my ward, Sara Tennant, after my death.
The family solicitor had handed it to her the previous day, after the
reading of the will, but the demands upon her time and attention had
been so many, owing to the number of relatives who temporarily filled
the house, that she had laid it on one side for perusal when she
should be alone once more.

The sight of the familiar handwriting brought a swift mist of tears to
her eyes, and she hesitated a little before opening the sealed
envelope.

It was strange to realize that here was some message for her from
Patrick himself, but that no matter what the envelope might contain,
she would be able to give back no answer, make no reply. The knowledge
seemed to set him very far away from her, and for a few moments she
sobbed quietly, feeling utterly solitary and alone.

Presently she brushed the tears from her eyes and slit open the flap
of the envelope. Inside was a half-sheet of notepaper wrapped about a
small old-fashioned key, and on the outer fold was written: "The key
of the Chippendale bureau." That was all.

For an instant Sara was puzzled. Then she remembered that amongst
Patrick's personal bequests to her had been that of the small mahogany
bureau which stood near the window of his bedroom. It had not occurred
to her at the time that its contents might have any interest for her;
in fact, she had supposed it to be empty. But now she realized that
there was evidently something within it which Patrick must have
valued, seeing he had guarded the key so carefully and directed its
delivery to her through the reliable hands of his solicitor.

Rather glad of anything that might help to occupy her thoughts, she
decided to investigate the bureau at once, and accordingly made her
way to Patrick's bedroom.

On the threshold she paused, her heart contracting painfully as the
spick and span aspect of the room, its ordered absence of any trace of
occupation, reminded her that its one-time owner would never again
have any further need of it.

Everything in the house seemed to present her grief to her anew, from
some fresh angle, forcing comparison of what had been with what was--
the wheeled chair, standing vacant in one of the lobbies, the tobacco
jar perched upon the chimney-piece, the pot of heliotrope--Patrick's
favourite blossom--scenting the library with its fragrance.

And now his room--empty, swept, and garnished like any one of the
score or so of spare bedrooms in the house!

With an effort, Sara forced herself to enter it. Crossing to the
window, she pulled a chair up to the Chippendale bureau and unlocked
it. Then she drew out the sliding desk supports and laid back the flap
of polished mahogany that served as a writing-table. She was conscious
of a fleeting sense of admiration for the fine-grained wood and for
the smooth "feel" of the old brass handles, worn by long usage, then
her whole attention was riveted by the three things which were all the
contents of the desk--a packet of letters, stained and yellowing with
age and tied together with a broad, black ribbon, a jeweller's velvet
case stamped with faded gilt lettering, and an envelope addressed to
herself in Patrick's handwriting.

Very gently, with that tender reverence we accord to the sad little
possessions of our dead, Sara gathered them up and carried them to her
own sitting-room. She felt she could not stay to examine them in that
strangely empty, lifeless room that had been Patrick's; the terrible,
chill silence of it seemed to beat against the very heart of her.

Laying aside the jeweller's case and the package of letters, she
opened the envelope which bore her name and drew out a folded sheet of
paper, covered with Patrick's small, characteristic writing.
Impulsively she brushed it with her lips, then, leaning back in her
chair, began to read, her expression growing curiously intent as she
absorbed the contents of the letter. Once she smiled, and more than
once a sudden rush of unbidden tears blurred the closely written lines
in front of her.

"When you receive this, little pal Sara"--ran the letter--"I shall
have done with this world. Except that it means leaving you, my
dear, I shall be glad to go, for I'm a very tired man. So, when it
comes, you must try not to grudge me my 'long leave.' But there
are several things you ought to know, and which I want you to
know, yet I have never been able to bring myself to speak of them
to you. To tell you about them meant digging into the past--and
very often there is a hot coal lingering in the heart of a dead
fire that is apt to burn the fingers of whoever rakes out the
ashes. Frankly, then, I funked it. But now the time has come when
I can't put it off any longer.

"Little old pal, have you ever wondered why I loved you so much--
why you stood so close to my heart? I used to tease you and say it
was because we were no relation to each other, didn't I? If you
had been really my niece, proper respect (on your part, of course,
for your aged uncle!) and the barrier of a generation would have
set us the usual miles apart. But there was never anything of that
with us, was there? I bullied you, I know, when you needed it, but
we were always comrades. And to me, you were something more than a
comrade, something almost sacred and always adorable--the child of
the woman I loved.

"For we should have been married, Sara, your mother and I, had I
not been a poor man. We were engaged, but at that time, I was only
a younger son, with a younger son's meager portion, and the
prospect of my falling heir to Barrow seemed of all things the
most improbable. And Pauline Malincourt, your mother, had been
taught to abhor the idea of living on small means--trained to
regard her beauty and breeding as marketable assets, to go to the
highest bidder. For, although her parents came of fine old stock--
there's no better blood in England than the Malincourt strain, my
dear--they were deadly hard-up. So hard-up, that when they died--
as the result of a carriage accident which occurred a week after
Pauline's marriage--they left nothing behind them but debts which
your father liquidated.

"Of your father, Caleb Tennant, the millionaire, I will not write,
seeing that, after all, you are his child. It is enough to say
that he was a hard man, and that he and your mother led a very
unhappy life together, so unhappy that at last she left him,
choosing rather to live in utter poverty than remain with him. He
never forgave her for leaving him, and when he died, he willed
every penny he possessed to some scoundrelly cousin of his--who is
presumably enjoying the inheritance which should have been yours.

"That is your family history, my dear, and it is right that you
should know it--and know what you have to fight against. To be a
Malincourt is at once to have a curse and a blessing hung round
your neck. The Malincourts were originally of French extraction--
descendants of the haute noblesse of old France--cursed with the
devil's own pride and passionate self-will, and blessed with looks
and brains and charm above the average. They never bend; they
break sooner. And I think you've got the lot, Sara--the full
inheritance.

"Your mother was a true Malincourt. She could not bend, and when
things went awry, she broke.

"You must never think hardly of her, for she had been brought up in
that atmosphere of almost desperate pride which is too frequently
the curse of the poverty-stricken aristocrat. She made a ghastly
mistake, and paid for it afterwards every day of her life. And she
was urged into it by her father, who declined to recognize me in
any way, and by her mother, who made her life at home a simple
hell--as a clever society woman can make of any young girl's life
if she chooses.

"Just before she died, she sent for me and gave you into my care,
begging me to shield you from spoiling your life as she had
spoiled hers.

"I've done what I could. You are at least independent. No one can
drive you with the spur of poverty into selling yourself, as she
was driven. But there are a hundred other rocks in life against
which you may wreck your happiness, and remember, in the long run,
you sink or swim by your own force of character.

"And when love comes to you, as it will come,--for no woman with
your eyes and your mouth ever yet lived a loveless life!--never
forget that it is the biggest thing in the world, the one
altogether good and perfect gift. Don't let any twopenny-halfpenny
considerations of worldly advantage influence you, nor the tittle-
tattle of other folks, and even if it seems that something
insurmountable lies between you and the fulfillment of love, go
over it, or round it, or through it! If it's a real love, your
faith must be big enough to remove the mountains in the way--or to
go over them.

"The package of letters you will find in the bureau were those your
mother wrote to me during the few short weeks we belonged to each
other. I'm a sentimental old fool, and I've never been able to
bring myself to burn them. Will you do this for me?

"In the little velvet case you will find her miniature, which I
give to you. It is very like her--and like you, too, for you
resemble her wonderfully in appearance. Often, to look at you has
made my heart ache; sometimes it almost seemed as if the years had
rolled back and Pauline herself stood before me.

"And now that the order for release is on its way to me, it is
rather wonderful to reflect that in a few weeks--a few days,
perhaps--I shall be seeing her again. . . .

"Good-bye, little pal of mine. We've had some good times together,
haven't we?

"Your devoted, PATRICK."

Sara sat very still, the letter clasped in her hand. She had always
secretly believed that some long-dead romance lay behind Patrick's
bachelorhood, but she had never suspected that her own mother had been
the woman he had loved.

The knowledge illumined all the past with a fresh light, investing it
with a tender, reminiscent sentiment. It was easy now to understand
the almost idyllic atmosphere Patrick had infused into their life
together. Sara recognized it as the outcome of a love and fidelity as
beautiful and devoted as it is rare. Patrick's love for her mother had
partaken of the enduring qualities of the great passions of history.
Paolo and Francesca, Abelard and Heloise--even they could have known
no deeper, no more lasting love than that of Patrick Lovell for
Pauline.

The love-letters of the dead woman lay on Sara's lap, still tied
together with the black ribbon which Patrick's fingers must have
knotted round them. There were only six of them--half-a-dozen memories
of a love that had come hopelessly to grief--tangible memories which
her lover had never had the heart to destroy.

Sara handled them caressingly, these few, pathetic records of a bygone
passion, and at length, with hands that shook a little, she removed
the ribbon that bound them together. Where it had lain, preserving the
strip of paper beneath it from contact with the dust, bands of white
traversed the faint discoloration which time had worked upon the
outermost envelopes--mutely witnessing to the long years that had
passed away since the letters had been penned in the first rapturous
glow of hot young love.

Slowly, with a rather wistful sense of regret that it must needs be
done, Sara dropped them one by one, unread, into the fire, and watched
them flare up with a sudden spurt of flame, then curl and shrivel into
dead, grey ash--those last links with the romance of his youth which
Patrick had treasured so long and faithfully.

She wondered what manner of woman her mother could have been to
inspire so great a love that even her own unfaith had failed to sour
it. Her childish recollection, blurred by the passage of years, was of
a white-faced, rather haggard-looking woman with deep-set, haunted
eyes and a bitter mouth, but whose rare smile, when it came, was so
enchanting that it wiped out, for the moment, all remembrance of the
harsh lines which hardened her face when in repose.

With eager hands the girl picked up the little velvet case that held
the miniature, and snapped open the lid. The painting within, rimmed
in old paste, was of a girl in her early twenties. The face was oval,
with a small, pointed chin and a vivid red mouth, curling up at the
corners. There was little colour in the cheeks, and the black hair and
extraordinarily dark eyes served to enhance the creamy pallor of the
skin. It was not altogether an English face; the cheek-bones were too
high, and there was a definiteness of colouring, a decisive sharpness
of outline in the piquant features, not often found in a purely
English type.

Seen thus, the face looked strangely familiar to Sara, and yet no
memory of hers could recall her mother as she must have been at the
time this portrait was painted.

The miniature still in her hand, she moved hesitatingly to a mirror,
so placed that the light from the window fell full upon her as she
faced it. In a moment the odd sense of familiarity was explained.
There, looking back at her from the mirror, was the same sharply
angled face, the same warm ivory pallor of complexion, accentuated by
raven hair and black, sombre eyes. What was it Patrick had written?
"No woman with your eyes and your mouth ever yet lived a loveless
life."

With a curious deliberation, Sara examined the features in question.
The eyes were long, and the lids, opaquely white and fringed with jet-
black lashes, slanted downwards a little at the outer corners,
bestowing a curiously intense expression, such as one sometimes sees
in the eyes of an actor, and the mouth was the same vividly scarlet
mouth of the face in the miniature, at once passionate and sensitive.

The French strain in the Malincourt family had reproduced itself
indubitably, both in the appearance of Pauline and of Pauline's
daughter. Would the mother's tragedy, fruit of her singular charm and
of a pride which had accorded love but a secondary place in her scheme
of life, also be re-enacted in the case of the daughter? It seemed
almost as though Patrick must have had pre-vision of some like fiery
ordeal though which his "little old pal" might have to pass, so urgent
had been the warning he had uttered.

Sara shivered, as if she, too, felt a prescience of coming disaster.
It was as though a shadow had fallen across her path, a shadow of
which the substance lay hidden, shrouded in the mists which veil the
future.

The entrance to Barrow Court was somewhat forbidding. A flight of
shallow granite steps, flanked by balustrades of the same austere
substance, terminating in huge, rough-hewn pillars, led up to an
enormous door of ancient oak, studded with nails--destined, it would
seem, to resist the onslaught of an armed multitude. The sternness of
its aspect, when the great door was closed, seemed to add an increased
warmth to the suggestion of welcome it conveyed when, as now, it was
swung hospitably open, emitting a ruddy glow of firelight from the
hall beyond.

Sara was standing at the top of the granite steps, waiting to greet
the Durwards, whose approach was already heralded by the humming of a
motor far down the avenue.

A faint regret disquieted her. This was the last--the very last--time
she would stand at the head of those stairs in the capacity of a
hostess welcoming her guests; and even now her position there was
merely an honorary one! In a few minutes, when Mrs. Durward should
step across the threshold, it was she who would be transformed into
the hostess, while Sara would have to take her place as a simple guest
in the house which for twelve years had been her home.

Thrusting the thought determinedly aside, she watched the big
limousine swing smoothly round the curve of the drive and pull up in
front of the house, and there was no trace of reluctance in the smile
of greeting which she summoned up for Major Durward's benefit as he
alighted and came towards her with outstretched hand.

"But where are the others?" asked Sara, seeing that the chauffeur
immediately headed the car for the garage.

"They're coming along on foot," explained Durward. "Elisabeth declared
they should see nothing of the place cooped up in the car, so they got
out at the lodge and are walking across the park."

Sara preceded him into the hall, and they stood chatting together by
the tea-table until the sound of voices announced the arrival of the
rest of the party.

"Here they are!" exclaimed Durward, hurrying forward to meet them,
while Sara followed a trifle hesitatingly, conscious of a sudden
accession of shyness.

Notwithstanding the charming letter she had received from Mrs.
Durward, begging her to remain at Barrow Court exactly as long as it
suited her, now that the moment had come which would actually install
the new mistress of the Court, she began to feel as though her
continued presence there might be regarded rather in the light of an
intrusion.

Mrs. Durward's letter might very well have been dictated only by a
certain superficial politeness, or, even, solely at the instance of
her husband, and it was conceivable that the writer would be none too
pleased that her invitation had been so literally interpreted.

In the course of a few seconds of time Sara contrived to work herself
up into a condition bordering upon panic. And then a very low
contralto voice, indescribably sweet, and with an audacious ripple of
laughter running through it, swept all her scruples into the rubbish
heap. There was no doubting the sincerity of the speaker.

"It was so nice of you not to run away, Miss Tennant." As she spoke,
Mrs. Durward shook hands cordially. "Poor Geoffrey couldn't help being
the heir, you know, and if you'd refused to stay, he'd have felt just
like the villain in a cinema film. You've saved us from becoming the
crawling, self-reproachful wretches." Then she turned and beckoned to
her son. "This is Tim," she said simply, but the quality of her voice
was very much as though she had announced: "This is the sun, and moon,
and stars."

As mother and son stood side by side, Sara's first impression was that
she had never seen two more beautiful people. They were both tall, and
a kind of radiance seemed to envelope them--a glory imparted by the
sheer force of perfect symmetry and health--and, in the case of the
former of the two, there was an added charm in a certain little air of
stateliness and distinction which characterized her movements.

Patrick's reminiscent comment on Elisabeth Durward recalled itself to
Sara's mind: "I think she was one of the most beautiful women I have
ever seen," and she recognized that almost any one might have
truthfully subscribed to the same opinion.

Mrs. Durward must have been at least forty years of age--arguing from
the presence of the six foot of young manhood whom she called son--but
her appearance was still that of a woman who had not long passed her
thirtieth milestone. The supple lines of her figure held the merest
suggestion of maturity in their gracious curves, and the rich chestnut
hair, swathed round her small, fine head, gleamed with the sheen which
only youth or immense vitality bestows. Her skin was of that almost
dazzling purity which is so often found in conjunction with reddish
hair, and the defect of over-light brows and lashes, which not
infrequently mars the type, was conspicuously absent. Her eyes were
arresting. They were of a deep, hyacinth blue, very luminous and soft,
and quite beautiful. But they held a curiously veiled expression--a
something guarded and inscrutable--as though they hid some secret
inner knowledge sentinelled from the world at large.

Sara, meeting their still, enigmatic gaze, was subtly conscious of an
odd sense of repulsion, almost amounting to dread, and then Elisabeth,
making some trivial observation as she moved nearer to the fire,
smiled across at her, and, in the extraordinary charm of her smile,
the momentary sensation of fear was forgotten.

Nevertheless, it was with a feeling of relief that Sara encountered
the gay, frank glance of the son.

Tim Durward, though dowered to the full with his mother's beauty, had
yet been effectually preserved from the misfortune of being an
effeminate repetition of her. In him, Elisabeth's glowing auburn
colouring had sobered to a steady brown--evidenced in the crisp, curly
hair and sun-tanned skin; and the misty hyacinth-blue of her eyes had
hardened in the eyes of her son into the clear, bright azure of the
sea, whist the beautiful contours of her face, repeated in his, had
strengthened into a fine young virility.

"I can't cure mother of introducing me as if I were the Lord Mayor,"
he murmured plaintively to Sara as they sat down to tea. "I suppose
it's the penalty of being an only son."

"Nothing of the sort," asserted Elisabeth composedly. "Naturally I'm
pleased with you--you're so absurdly like me. I always look upon you
in the light of a perpetual compliment, because you've elected to grow
up like me instead of like Geoffrey"--nodding towards her husband.
"After all, you had us both to choose from."

Tim shouted with delight.

"Listen to her, Miss Tennant! And for years I've been mistaking mere
vulgar female vanity for maternal solicitude."

"Anyway, you're a very poor compliment," threw in Major Durward, with
an expressive glance at his wife's beautiful face. It was obvious that
he worshipped her, and she smiled across at him, blushing adorably,
just like a girl of sixteen.

Tim turned to Sara with a grimace.

"It's a great trial, Miss Tennant, to be blessed with two parents--"

"It's quite usual," interpolated Geoffrey mildly.

"Two parents," continued Tim, firmly ignoring him, "who are
hopelessly, besottedly in love with each other. Instead of being--as I
ought to be--the apple of their eye--of both their eyes--I'm merely
the shadowy third."

Sara surveyed his goodly proportions consideringly.

"No one would have suspected it," she assured him; and Tim grinned
appreciatively.

"If you stay with us long," he replied, "as I hope"--impressively--
"you will, you'll soon perceive how utterly I am neglected. Perhaps"--
his face brightening--"you may be moved to take pity on my solitude--
quite frequently."

"Tim, stop being an idiot," interposed his mother placidly, holding
out her cup, "and ask Miss Tennant to give me another lump of sugar."

The advent of the Durwards, breaking in upon her enforced solitude,
helped very considerably to arouse Sara from the natural depression
into which she had fallen after Patrick's death. With their absurdly
large share of good looks, their charmingly obvious attachment to each
other, and their enthusiastic, unconventional hospitality towards such
an utter stranger as herself, devoid of any real claim upon them, she
found the trio unexpectedly interesting and delightful. They had
hailed her as a friend, and her frank, warm-hearted nature responded
instantly, speedily according each of them a special niche in her
regard. She felt as though Providence had suddenly endowed her with a
whole family--"all complete and ready for use," as Tim cheerfully
observed--and the reaction from the oppressive consciousness of being
entirely alone in the world acted like a tonic.

The first brief sentiment of aversion which she had experienced
towards Elisabeth melted like snow in sunshine under the daily charm
of her companionship; and though the hyacinth eyes held always in
their depths that strange suggestion of mystery, Sara grew to believe
it must be merely some curious effect incidental to the colour and
shape of the eyes themselves, rather than an indication of the soul
that looked out of them.

There was something perennially captivating about Elisabeth. An
atmosphere of romance enveloped her, engendering continuous interest
and surmise, and Sara found it wholly impossible to view her from an
ordinary prosaic standpoint. Occasionally she would recall the fact
that Mrs. Durward was in reality a woman of over forty, mother of a
grown-up son who, according to all the usages of custom, should be
settling down into the drab and placid backwater of middle age, but
she realized that the description went ludicrously wide of the mark.

There was nothing in the least drab about Elisabeth, nor would there
ever be. She was full of colour and brilliance, reminding one of a
great glowing-hearted rose in its prime.

Part of her charm, undoubtedly, lay in her attitude towards husband
and son. She was still as romantically in love with Major Durward as
any girl in her teens, and she adored Tim quite openly.

Inevitably, perhaps, there was a touch of the spoilt woman about her,
since both men combined to indulge her in every whim. Nevertheless,
there was nothing either small or petty in her willfulness. It was
rather the superb, stately arrogance of a queen, and she was kindness
itself to Sara.

But the largest share of credit in restoring the latter to a more
normal and less highly strung condition was due to Tim, who gravitated
towards her with the facility common to natural man when he finds
himself for any length of time under the same roof with an attractive
young person of the opposite sex. He had an engaging habit of
appearing at the door of Sara's sitting-room with an ingratiating: "I
say, may I come in for a yarn?" And, upon receiving permission, he
would establish himself on the hearth-rug at her feet and proceed to
prattle to her about his own affairs, much as a brother might have
done to a favourite sister, and with an equal assurance that his
confidences would be met with sympathetic interest.

"What are you going to do with yourself, Tim?" asked Sara one day, as
he sprawled in blissful indolence on the great bearskin in front of
her fire, pulling happily at a beloved old pipe.

"Do with myself?" he repeated. "What do you mean? I'm doing very
comfortably just at present"--glancing round him appreciatively.

"I mean--what are you going to be? Aren't you going to enter any
profession?"

Tim sat up suddenly, removing his pipe from his mouth.

"No," he said shortly.

"But why not? You can't slack about here for ever, doing nothing. I
should have thought you would have gone into the Army, like your
father."

His blue eyes hardened.

"That's what I wanted to do," he said gruffly. "But the mother
wouldn't hear of it."

Sara could sense the pain in his suddenly roughened tones.

"But why? You'd make a splendid soldier, Tim"--eyeing his long length
affectionately.

"I should have loved it," he said wistfully. "I wanted it more than
anything. But mother worried so frightfully whenever I suggested the
idea that I had to give it up. I'm to learn to be a landowner and
squire and all that sort of tosh instead."

"But that could come later."

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course it could. But mother refused point-blank to let me go to
Sandhurst. So now, unless a war crops up--and it doesn't look as
though there's much chance of that!--I'm out of the running. But if it
ever does, Sara"--he laid his hand eagerly on her knee--"I swear I'll
be one of the first to volunteer. I was a fool to give in to the
mother over the matter, only she was simply making herself ill about
it, and, of course, I couldn't stand that."

Sara wondered why Mrs. Durward should have interfered to prevent her
son from following what was obviously his natural bent. It would have
seemed almost inevitable that, as a soldier's son, he should enter one
or other of the Services, and instead, here he was, stranded in a
little country backwater, simply eating his heart out. Mentally she
determined to broach the subject to Elisabeth as soon as an
opportunity presented itself; but for the moment she skillfully drew
the conversation away from what was evidently a sore subject, and
suggested that Tim should accompany her into Fallowdene, where she had
an errand at the post office. He assented eagerly, with a shake of his
broad shoulders as though to rid himself of the disagreeable burden of
his thoughts.

From the window of his wife's sitting-room Major Durward watched the
two as they started on their way to the village, evidently on the best
of terms with one another, a placid smile spreading beneficently over
his face as they vanished round the corner of the shrubbery.

"Anything in it, do you think?" he asked, seeing that Elisabeth's gaze
had pursued the same course.

"It's impossible to say," she answered quietly. "Tim imagines himself
to be falling in love, I don't doubt; but at twenty-two a boy imagines
himself in love with half the girls he meets."

"I didn't," declared Geoffrey promptly. "I fell in love with you at
the mature age of nineteen--and I never fell out again."

"Well, would you be pleased?" persisted her husband, jerking his head
explanatorily in the direction in which Sara and Tim had disappeared.

"I shall always be pleased with the woman who makes Tim happy," she
answered simply.

Durward was silent a moment; then he returned to the attack.

"She's a very pretty young woman, don't you think?"

"Sara? No, I shouldn't call her exactly pretty. Her face is too thin,
and strong, and eager. But she is a very uncommon type--like a black
and white etching, and immensely attractive."

It was several days before Sara was able to introduce the topic of
Tim's profession, but she contrived it one afternoon when she and
Elisabeth were sitting together awaiting the return of the two men for
tea.

"It will be profession enough for Tim to look after the property,"
Elisabeth made answer. "He can act as agent for his father to some
extent, and relieve him of a great deal of necessary business that has
to be transacted."

She spoke with a certain finality which made it difficult to pursue
the subject, but Sara, remembering Tim's suddenly hard young eyes,
persisted.

"It's a pity he cannot go into the Army--he's so keen on it," she
suggested tentatively.

A curious change came over Elisabeth's face. It seemed to Sara as
though a veil had descended, from behind which the inscrutable eyes
were watching her warily. But the response was given lightly enough.

"Oh, one of the family in the Service is enough. I should see so
little of my Tim if he became a soldier--only an occasional 'leave.' "

"He would make a very good soldier," said Sara. "To my mind, it's the
finest profession in the world for any man."

Sara experienced a revulsion of feeling; she had not expected
Elisabeth to be of the fearful type of woman. Women of splendid
physique and abounding vitality are rarely obsessed by craven
apprehensions.

"I don't think the risks would count with Tim," she said warmly. "He
has any amount of pluck." And then she stared at Elisabeth in
amazement. A sudden haggardness had overspread the elder woman's face,
the faint shell-pink that usually flushed her cheeks draining away and
leaving them milk-white.

"Yes," she replied in stifled tones. "I don't suppose Tim's a coward.
But"--more lightly--"I think I am. I--don't think I care for the Army
as a profession. Tim is my only child," she added self-excusingly. "I
can't let him run risks--of any kind."

As she spoke, an odd foreboding seized hold of Sara. It was as though
the secret dread of something--she could not tell what--which held
the mother had communicated itself to her.

She shivered. Then, the impression fading as quickly as it had come,
she spoke defiantly, as if trying to reassure herself.

"There aren't many risks in these piping times of peace. Soldiers
don't die in battle nowadays; they retire on a pension."

"Die in battle! Did you think I was afraid of that?" There was a
sudden fierce contempt in Elisabeth's voice.

Sara looked at her with astonishment.

"Weren't you?" she said hesitatingly.

Elisabeth seemed about to make some passionate rejoinder. Then, all at
once, she checked herself, and again Sara was conscious of that
curiously secretive expression in her eyes, as though she were on
guard.

"There are many things worse than death," she said evasively, and
deliberately turned the conversation into other channels.

During the days that followed, Sara became aware of a faintly
perceptible difference in her relations with Elisabeth. The latter was
still just as charming as ever, but she seemed, in some inexplicable
way, to have set a limit to their intimacy--defined a boundary line
which she never intended to be overstepped.

It was as though she felt that she had allowed Sara to approach too
nearly some inner sanctum which she had hitherto guarded securely from
all intrusion, and now hastened to erect a barricade against a
repetition of the offence.

More than once, lately, Sara had broached the subject of her impending
departure from Barrow, only to have the suggestion incontinently
brushed aside by Major Durward, who declared that he declined to
discuss any such disagreeable topic. But now, sensitively conscious
that she had troubled Elisabeth's peace in some way, she decided to
make definite arrangements regarding her immediate future.

She was agreeably surprised, when she propounded her idea, to find
Mrs. Durward seemed quite as unwilling to part with her as were both
her husband and son. Apparently the alteration in her manner, with its
curiously augmented reticence, was no indication of any personal
antipathy, and Sara felt proportionately relieved, although somewhat
mystified.

"We shall all miss you," averred Elisabeth, and there was absolute
sincerity in her tones. "I don't see why you need be in such a hurry
to run away from us." And Geoffrey and Tim chorused approval.

Sara beamed upon them all with humid eyes.

"It's dear of you to want me to stay with you," she declared. "But,
don't you see, I must live my own life--have a roof-tree of my own?
I can't just sit down comfortably in the shade of yours."

"Pushful young woman!" chaffed Geoffrey. "Well, I can see your mind is
made up. So what are your plans? Let's hear them."

"I thought of taking rooms for a while with some really nice people--
gentlefolk who wanted to take a paying guest--"

"Poor but honest, in fact," supplemented Geoffrey.

Sara nodded.

"Yes. You see"--smiling--"you people have spoiled me for living alone,
and as I'm really rather a solitary individual, I must find a little
niche for myself somewhere." She unfolded a letter she was holding. "I
thought I should like to go near the sea--to some quite tiny country
place at the back of beyond. And I think I've found just the thing. I
saw an advertisement for a paying guest--of the female persuasion--so
I replied to it, and I've just had an answer to my letter. It's from a
doctor man--a Dr. Selwyn, at Monkshaven--who has an invalid wife and
one daughter, and he writes such an original kind of epistle that I'm
sure I should like him."

Geoffrey held out his hand for the letter, running his eyes down its
contents, while his wife, receiving an assenting nod from Sara in
response to her "May I?" looked over his shoulder.

Only Tim appeared to take no interest in the matter, but remained
standing rather aloof, staring out of the window, his back to the trio
grouped around the hearth.

" 'Household . . . myself, wife, one daughter,' " muttered Geoffrey.
"Um-um--'quarter of a mile from the sea'--um----'As you will have
guessed from the fact of my advertising' "--here he began to read
aloud--" 'we are not too lavishly blessed with this world's goods. Our
house is roomy and comfortable, though abominably furnished. But I can
guarantee the climate, and there are plenty of nicer people than
ourselves in the neighbourhood. It wouldn't be fitting for me to blow
our own particular household trumpet--nor, to tell the truth, is it
always calculated to give forth melodious sounds; but if the other
considerations I have mentioned commend themselves to you, I suggest
that you come down and make trial of us.' "

"Don't you think he sounds just delightful?" queried Sara.

Manlike, Geoffrey shook his head disapprovingly.

"No, I don't," he said decisively. "That's the most unbusinesslike
letter I've ever read."

"I like it very much," announced Elisabeth with equal decision. "The
man writes just as he thinks--perfectly frankly and naturally. I
should go and give them a trial as he suggests. Sara, if I were you."

"That's what I feel inclined to do," replied Sara. "I thought it a
delicious letter."

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

"Then, of course, if you two women have made up your minds that the
man's a natural saint, I may as well hold my peace. What's the
fellow's address?--I'll look him up in the Medical Directory. Richard
Selwyn, Sunnyside, Monkshaven--that right?"

He departed to the library in search of Dr. Selywn's credentials,
presently returning with a somewhat rueful grin on his face.

"He seems all right--rather a clever man, judging by his degrees and
the appointments he has held," he acknowledged grudgingly.

"I'm sure he's all right, asserted Sara firmly.

"Although I don't understand why such a good man at his job should be
practicing in a little one-horse place like Monkshaven," retorted
Geoffrey maliciously.

"Probably he went there on account of his wife's health," suggested
Elisabeth. "He says she is an invalid."

"Oh, well"--Geoffrey yielded unwillingly--"I suppose you'll go, Sara.
But if the experiment isn't a success you must come back to us at
once. Is that a bargain?"

Sara hesitated.

"Promise," commanded Geoffrey. "Or"--firmly--"I'm hanged if we let you
go at all."

"Very well," agreed Sara meekly. "I'll promise."

"I hope the experiment will be an utter failure," observed Tim, later
on, when he and Sara were alone together. He spoke with an oddly curt
--almost inimical--inflection in his voice.

"Now that's unkind of you, Tim," she protested smilingly. "I thought
you were a good enough pal not to want to chortle over me--as I know
Geoffrey will--should the thing turn out a frost!"

"Well, I'm not, then," he returned roughly.

The churlish tones were so unlike Tim that Sara looked up at him in
some amazement. He was staring down at her with a strange, awakened
expression in his eyes; his face was very white and his mouth working.

With a sudden apprehension of what was impending, she sprang up,
stretching out her hand as though to ward it off.

"No--no, Tim. It isn't--don't say it's that----"

He caught her hand and held it between both his.

"But it is that," he said, speaking very fast, the serenity of his
face all broken up by the surge of emotion that had gripped him. "It
is that. I love you. I didn't know it till you spoke of going away.
Sara-- "

In the silence that followed the two young faces peered at each other
--the one desperate with love, the other full of infinite regret and
pleading.

At last--

"It's no use, then?" said Tim dully. "You don't care?"

"I'm afraid I don't--not like that. I thought we were friends--just
friends, Tim," she urged.

Tim lifted his head, and she saw that somehow, in the last few
minutes, he had grown suddenly older. His gay, smiling mouth had set
itself sternly; the beautiful boyish face had become a man's.

"I thought so, too," he said gently. "But I know now that what I feel
for you isn't friendship. It's"--with a short, grim laugh--"something
much more than that. Tell me, Sara--will there ever be any chance for
me?"

She hesitated. She was so genuinely fond of him that she hated to give
him pain. Looking at him, standing before her in his splendid young
manhood, she wondered irritably why she didn't love him. He was pre-
eminently loveable.

He caught eagerly at her hesitation.

"Don't answer me now!" he said swiftly. "I'll wait--give me a chance.
I can't take no . . . I won't take it!" he went on masterfully. "I
love you!" Impetuously he slipped his strong young arms about her and
kissed her on the mouth.

The previous moment she had been all softness and regret, but now, at
the sudden passion in his voice, something within her recoiled
violently, repudiating the claim his love had made upon her.

Sara was the last woman in the world to be taken by storm. She was too
individual, her sense of personal independence too strongly developed,
for her ever to be swept off her feet by a passion to which her own
heart offered no response. Instead, it roused her to a definite
consciousness of opposition, and she drew herself away from Tim's
eager arms with a decision there was no mistaking.

"I'm sorry, Tim," she said quietly. "But it's no good pretending I'm
in love with you. I'm not."

He looked at her with moody, dissatisfied eyes.

"I've spoken too soon," he said. "I should have waited. Only I was
afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Yes." He spoke uncertainly. "I've had a feeling that if I let you go,
you'll meet some man down there, at Monkshaven, who'll want to marry
you . . . And I shall lose you! . . . Oh, Sara! I don't ask you to say
you love me--yet. Say that you'll marry me . . . I'd teach you the
rest--you'd learn to love me."

But that fierce, unpremeditated kiss--the first lover's kiss that she
had known--had endowed her with a sudden clarity of vision.

"No," she answered steadily. "I don't know much about love, Tim, but
I'm very sure it's no use trying to manufacture it to order, and--
listen, Tim, dear," the pain in his face making her suddenly all
tenderness again--"if I married you, and afterwards you couldn't
teach me as you think you could, we should only be wretched together."

"I could never be wretched if you were my wife," he answered doggedly.
"I've love enough for two."

She shook her head.

"No, Tim. Don't let's spoil a good friendship by turning it into a
one-sided love-affair."

He smiled rather grimly.

"I'm afraid it's too late to prevent that," he said drily. "But I
won't worry you any more now, dear. Only--I'm not going to accept your
answer as final."

"I wish you would," she urged.

He looked at her curiously. "No man who loves you, Sara, is going to
give you up very easily," he averred. Then, after a moment: "you'll
let me write to you sometimes?"

She nodded soberly.

"Yes--but not love-letters, Tim."

"No--not love-letters."

He lifted her hands and kissed first one and then the other. Then,
with his head well up and his shoulders squared, he went away.

But the sea-blue eyes that had been wont to look out on the world so
gaily had suddenly lost their care-free bravery. They were the eyes of
a man who has looked for the first time into the radiant, sorrowful
face of Love, and read therein all the possibilities--the glory and
the pain and the supreme happiness--which Love holds.

And Sara, standing alone and regretful that the friend had been lost
in the lover, never guessed that Tim's love was a thread which was
destined to cross and re-cross those other threads held by the fingers
of Fate until it had tangled the whole fabric of her life.

It was with a sigh of relief that Sara, in obedience to the warning
raucously intoned by a hurrying porter, vacated her seat in the
railway compartment in which she had travelled from Fallowdene. Her
companions on the journey had been an elderly spinster and her maid,
and as the former had insisted upon the exclusion of every breath of
outside air, Sara felt half-suffocated by the time they ran into
Oldhampton Junction. The Monkshaven train was already standing in the
station, and, commissioning a porter to transfer her luggage, she
sauntered leisurely along the platform, searching vainly for an empty
compartment, where the regulation of the supply of oxygen would not
depend upon the caprice of an old maid.

The train appeared to be very full, but at last she espied a first-
class smoking carriage which boasted but a single occupant--a man in
the far corner, half-hidden behind the newspaper he was holding--and,
tipping her porter, she stepped into the compartment and busied
herself bestowing her hand-baggage in the rack.

The man in the corner abruptly lowered his newspaper.

"This be a smoker," he remarked significantly.

Sara turned at the sound of his voice. The unwelcoming tones made it
abundantly clear that the remainder of his thought ran: "And you've no
business to get into it." A spark of amusement lit itself in her eyes.

"The railway company indicate as much on the window," she replied
placidly, with a glance towards the Smoking Carriage label pasted
against the pane.

There came no response, unless an irritated crackling of newspaper
could be regarded as such--and the next moment, to the accompaniment
of much banging of doors and a final shout of: "Stand away there!" the
train began to move slowly out of the station.

Sara sat down with a sigh of relief that she had escaped her former
travelling companions, with their unpleasant predilection for a
vitiated atmosphere, and her thoughts wandered idly to the
consideration of the man in the corner, to whom she was obviously an
equally unwelcome fellow-passenger.

He had retired once more behind his newspaper, and practically all
that was offered for her contemplation consisted of a pair of knee-
breeches and well-cut leather leggings and two strong-looking, sun-
tanned hands. These latter intrigued Sara considerably--their long,
sensitive fingers and short, well-kept nails according curiously with
their sunburnt suggestion of great physical strength and an outdoor
life. She wished their owner would see fit to lower his newspaper once
more, since her momentary glimpse of his face had supplied her with
but little idea of his personality. And the hands, so full of
contradictory suggestion, aroused her interest.

As though in response to her thoughts, the newspaper suddenly crackled
down on to its owner's knees.

"I have every intention of smoking," he announced aggressively. "This
is a smoking carriage."

Sara, supported by the recollection of a dainty little gold and enamel
affair in her hand-bag, filled with some very special Russian
cigarettes, smiled amiably.

"I know it is," she replied in unruffled tones. "That's why I got in.
I, too, have every intention of smoking."

He stared at her in silence for a moment, then, without further
comment, produced a pipe and tobacco pouch from the depths of a
pocket, and proceeded to fill the former, carefully pressing down the
tobacco with the tip of one of those slender, capable-looking fingers.

Sara observed him quickly. As he lounged there indolently in his
corner, she was aware of a subtle combination of strength and fine
tempering in the long, supple lines of his limbs--something that
suggested the quality of steel, hard, yet pliant. He had a lean, hard-
bitten face, tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, and the clean-
shaven lips met with a curious suggestion of bitter reticence in their
firm closing. His hair was brown--"plain brown" as Sara mentally
characterized it--but it had a redeeming kink in it and the crispness
of splendid vitality. The eyes beneath the straight, rather frowning
brows were hazel, and, even in the brief space of time occupied by the
inimical colloquy of a few moments ago, Sara had been struck by the
peculiar intensity of their regard--an odd depth and brilliance only
occasionally to be met with, and then preferably in those eyes which
are a somewhat light grey in colour and ringed round the outer edge of
the iris with a deeper tint.

The flare of a match roused her from her half-idle, half-interested
contemplation of her fellow-passenger, and, as he lit his pipe, she
was sharply conscious that his oddly luminous eyes were regarding her
with a glint of irony in their depths.

Instantly she recalled his hostile reception of her entrance into the
compartment, and the defiantly given explanation she had tendered in
return.

Very deliberately she extracted her cigarette-case from her bag and
selected a cigarette, only to discover that she had not supplied
herself with a matchbox. She hunted assiduously amongst the assortment
of odds and ends the bag contained, but in vain, and finally, a little
nettled that her companion made no attempt to supply the obvious
deficiency, she looked up to find that he was once more, to all
appearances, completely absorbed in his newspaper.

Sara regarded him with indignation; in her own mind she was perfectly
convinced that he was aware of her quandary and had no mind to help
her out of it. Evidently he had not forgiven her intrusion into his
solitude.

"Boor!" she ejaculated mentally. Then, aloud, and with considerable
acerbity:

"Could you oblige me with a match?"

With no show of alacrity, and with complete indifference of manner, he
produced a matchbox and handed it to her, immediately reverting to his
newspaper as though considerably bored by the interruption.

Sara flushed, and, having lit her cigarette, tendered him his matchbox
with an icy little word of thanks.

Apparently, however, he was quite unashamed of his churlishness, for
he accepted the box without troubling to raise his eyes from the page
he was reading, and the remainder of the journey to Monkshaven was
accomplished in an atmosphere that bristled with hostility.

As the train slowed up into the station, it became evident to Sara
that Monkshaven was also the destination of her travelling companion,
for he proceeded with great deliberation to fold up his newspaper and
to hoist his suit-case down from the rack. It did not seem to occur to
him to proffer his service to Sara, who was struggling with her own
hand-luggage, and the instant the train came to a standstill he
opened the door of the compartment, stopped out on to the platform,
and marched away.

A gleam of amusement crossed her face.

"I wonder who he is?" she reflected, as she followed in the wake of a
porter in search of her trunks. "He certainly needs a lesson in
manners."

Within herself she registered a vindictive vow that, should the
circumstances of her residence in Monkshaven afford the opportunity,
she would endeavour to give him one.

Monkshaven was but a tiny little station, and it was soon apparent
that no conveyance of any kind had been sent to meet her.

"No, there would be none," opined the porter of whom she inquired.
"Dr. Selwyn keeps naught but a little pony-trap, and he's most times
using it himself. But there's a 'bus from the Cliff Hotel meets all
trains, miss, and"--with pride--"there's a station keb."

In a few minutes Sara was the proud--and thankful--occupant of the
"station keb," and, after bumping over the cobbles with which the
station yard was paved, she found herself being driven in leisurely
fashion through the high street of the little town, whilst her driver,
sitting sideways on his box, indicated the points of interest with his
whip as they went along.

Presently the cab turned out of the town and began the ascent of a
steep hill, and as they climbed the winding road, Sara found that she
could glimpse the sea, rippling greyly beyond the town, and tufted
with little bunches of spume whipped into being by the keen March
wind. The town itself spread out before her, an assemblage of red and
grey tiled roofs sloping downwards to the curve of the bay, while, on
the right, a bold promontory thrust itself into the sea, grimly
resisting the perpetual onslaught of the wave. Through the waning
light of the winter's afternoon, Sara could discern the outline of a
house limned against the dark background of woods that crowned it.
Linked to the jutting headland, a long range of sea-washed cliffs
stretched as far as the eyes could reach.

"That be Monk's Cliff," vouchsafed the driver conversationally. "Bit
of a lonesome place for folks to choose to live at, ain't it?"

"Who lives there?" asked Sara with interest.

"Gentleman of the name of Trent--queer kind of bloke he must be, too,
if all's true they say of 'im. He's lived there a matter of ten years
or more--lives by 'imself with just a man and his wife to do for 'im.
Far End, they calls the 'ouse."

"Far End," repeated Sara. The name conveyed an odd sense of remoteness
and inaccessibility. It seemed peculiarly appropriate to a house built
thus on the very edge of the mainland.

Her eyes rested musingly on the bleak promontory. It would be a fit
abode, she thought, for some recluse, determined to eschew the society
of his fellow-men; here he could dwell, solitary and apart, surrounded
on three sides by the grey, dividing sea, and protected on the fourth
by the steep untempting climb that lay betwixt the town and the lonely
house on the cliff.

" 'Ere you are, miss. This is Dr. Selwyn's."

The voice of her Jehu roused her from her reflections to find that the
cab had stopped in front of a white-painted wooden gate bearing the
legend, "Sunnyside," painted in black letters across its topmost bar.

"I'll take the keb round to the stable-yard, miss; it'll be more
convenient-like for the luggage," added the man, with a mildly
disapproving glance towards the narrow tiled path leading from the
gate to the house-door.

Sara nodded, and, having paid him his fare, made her way through the
white gateway and along the path.

There seemed a curious absence of life about the place. No sound of
voices broke the silence, and, although the front door stood
invitingly open, there was no sign of any one hovering in the
background ready to receive her.

Vaguely chilled--since, of course, they must be expecting her--she
rang the bell. It clanged noisily through the house but failed to
produce any more important result than the dislodging of some dust
from a ledge above which the bell-wire ran. Sara watched it fall and
lie on the floor in a little patch of fine, greyish powder.

The hall, of which the open door gave view, though of considerable
dimensions, was poorly furnished. The wide expanse of colour-washed
wall was broken only by a hat-stand, on which hung a large assortment
of masculine hats and coats, all of them looking considerably the
worse for wear, and by two straight-backed chairs placed with
praiseworthy exactitude at equal distances apart from the aforesaid
rather overburdened piece of furniture. The floor was covered with
linoleum of which the black and white chess-board pattern had long
since retrogressed with usage into an uninspiring blur. A couple of
threadbare rugs completed a somewhat depressing "interior."

Sara rang the bell a second time, on this occasion with an irritable
force that produced clangour enough, one would have thought, to awaken
the dead. It served, at all events, to arouse the living, for
presently heavy footsteps could be heard descending the stairs, and,
finally, a middle-aged maidservant, whose cap had obviously been
assumed in haste, appeared, confronting Sara with an air of suspicion
that seemed rather to suggest that she might have come after the
spoons.

"The doctor's out," she announced somewhat truculently. Then, before
Sara had time to formulate any reply, she added, a thought more
graciously: "Maybe you're a stranger to these parts. Surgery hour's
not till six o'clock."

She was evidently fully prepared for Sara to accept this as a
dismissal, and looked considerably astonished when the latter queried
meekly:

"Then can I see Miss Selwyn, please? I understand Mrs. Selwyn is an
invalid."

"You're right there. The mistress isn't up for seeing visitors. And
Miss Molly, she's not home--she's away to Oldhampton."

"Miss Tennant! Sakes alive!" The woman threw up her hands, staring at
Sara with an almost comic expression, halting midway between
bewilderment and horror. "If that isn't just the way of them," she
went on indignantly, "never mentioning that 'twas to-day you were
coming--and no sheets aired to your bed and all! The master, he never
so much as named it to me, nor Miss Molly neither. But please to come
in, miss--" her outraged sense of hospitality infusing a certain
limited cordiality into her tones.

The woman led the way into a sitting-room that opened off the hall,
standing aside for Sara to pass in, then, muttering half-inaudibly,
"You'll be liking a cup of tea, I expect," she disappeared into the
back regions of the house, whence a distant clattering of china
shortly gave indication that the proffered refreshment was in course
of preparation.

Sara seated herself in a somewhat battered armchair and proceeded to
take stock of the room in which she found herself. It tallied
accurately with what the hall had led her to expect. Most of the
furniture had been good of its kind at one time, but it was now all
reduced to a drab level of shabbiness. There were a few genuine
antiques amongst it--a couple of camel-backed Chippendale chairs, a
grandfather's clock, and some fine old bits of silver--which Sara's
eye, accustomed to the rare and beautiful furnishings of Barrow Court,
singled out at once from the olla podrida of incongruous modern stuff.
These alone had survived the general condition of disrepair; but, even
so, the silver had a neglected appearance and stood badly in need of
cleaning.

This latter criticism might have been leveled with equal justice at
almost everything in the room, and Sara, mindful of her reception,
reflected that in such an oddly conducted household, where the advent
of an expected, and obviously much-needed, paying guest could be
completely overlooked, it was hardly probable that smaller details of
house-management would receive their meed of attention.

Instead of depressing her, however, the forlorn aspect of the room
assisted to raise her spirits. It looked as though there might very
well be a niche in such a household that she could fill. Mentally she
proceeded to make a tour of the room, duster in hand, and she had just
reached the point where, in imagination, she was about to place a
great bowl of flowers in the middle desert of the table, when the
elderly Abigail re-appeared and dumped a tea-tray down in front of
her.

Sara made a wry face over the tea. It tasted flat, and she could well
imagine the long-boiling kettle from which the water with which it had
been made was poured.

"I'm sure that tea's beastly!"

A masculine voice sounded abruptly from the doorway, and, looking up,
Sara beheld a tall, eager-faced man, wearing a loose shabby coat and
carrying in one hand a professional-looking doctor's bag. The bag,
however, was the only professional-looking thing about him. For the
rest, he might have been taken to be either an impoverished country
squire and sportsman, or a Roman Catholic dignitary, according to
whether you assessed him by his broad, well-knit figure and weather-
beaten complexion, puckered with wrinkles born of jolly laughter, or
by the somewhat austere and controlled set of his mouth and by the
ardent luminous grey eyes, with their touch of the visionary and
fanatic.

Sara set down her cup hastily.

"And I'm sure you're Dr. Selwyn," she said, a flicker of amusement at
his unconventional greeting in her voice.

"Right!" he answered, shaking hands. "How are you, Miss Tennant? It
was plucky of you to decide to risk us after all, and I hope--" with a
slight grimace--"you won't find we are any worse than I depicted. I
was very sorry I had to be out when you came," he went on genially,
"but I expect Molly has looked after you all right? By the way"--
glancing round him in some perplexity--"where is Molly?"

"I understood," replied Sara tranquilly, "that she had gone in to
Oldhampton."

Dr. Selwyn's expression was not unlike that of a puppy caught in the
unlawful possession of his master's slipper.

"What did I warn you?" he exclaimed with a rueful laugh. "We're quite
a hopeless household, I'm afraid. And Molly's the most absent-minded
of beings. I expect she has clean forgotten that you were coming
to-day. She's by way of being an artist--art-student, rather"--
correcting himself with a smile. "You know the kind of thing--black
carpets and Futurist colour schemes in dress. So you must try and
forgive her. She's only seventeen. But Jane--I hope Jane did the
honours properly? She is our stand-by in all emergencies."

Sara's eyes danced.

"I'm afraid I came upon Jane entirely in the light of an unpleasant
surprise," she responded mildly.

"What! Do you mean to say she wasn't prepared for you? Oh, but this is
scandalous! What must you think of us all?" he strode across the room
and pealed the bell, and, when Jane appeared in answer to the summons,
demanded wrathfully why nothing was in readiness for Miss Tennant's
arrival.

Jane surveyed him with the immovable calm of the old family servant,
her arms akimbo.

"And how should it be?" she wanted to know. "Seeing that neither you
nor Miss Molly named it to me that the young lady was coming to-day?"

"And did you expect her to do so, sir, may I ask?" inquired Jane with
withering scorn.

"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Molly gave you no orders about
preparing a room?" countered the doctor, skillfully avoiding the point
raised?"

"No, sir, she didn't. And if I'm kep' here talking much longer, there
won't be one prepared, neither! 'Tis no use crying over spilt milk.
Let me get on with the airing of my sheets, and do you talk to the
young lady whiles I see to it."

And Jane departed forthwith about her business.

"Jane Crab," observed Selwyn, twinkling, "has been with us five-and-
twenty years. I had better do as she tells me." He threw a doleful
glance at the unappetizing tea in Sara's cup. "I positively dare not
order you fresh tea--in the circumstances. Jane would probably
retaliate with an ultimatum involving a rigid choice between tea and
the preparation of your room, accompanied by a pithy summary of the
capabilities of one pair of hands."

"Wouldn't you like some tea yourself?" hazarded Sara.

"I should--very much. But I see no prospect of getting any while Jane
maintains her present attitude of mind."

"Then--if you will show me the kitchen--I'll make some," announced
Sara valiantly.

Selwyn regarded her with a pitying smile.

"You don't know Jane," he said. "Trespassers in the kitchen are not--
welcomed."

"And Jane doesn't know me," replied Sara firmly.

"On your own head be it, then," retorted the doctor, and led the way
to the sacrosanct domain presided over by Jane Crab.

How Sara managed it Selwyn never knew, but she contrived to invade
Jane's kitchen and perform the office of tea-making without offending
her in the very least. Nay, more, by some occult process known only to
herself, she succeeded in winning Jane's capacious heart, and from
that moment onwards, the autocrat of the kitchen became her devoted
satellite; and later, when Sara started to make drastic changes in the
slip-shod arrangements of the house, her most willing ally.

"Miss Tennant's the only body in the place as has got some sense in
her head," she was heard to observe on more than one occasion.

After tea, Selwyn escorted Sara upstairs and introduced her to his
wife. Mrs. Selwyn was a slender, colourless woman, possessing the
remnants of what must at one time have been an ineffective kind of
prettiness. She was a determinedly chronic invalid, and rarely left
the rooms which had been set aside for her use to join the other
members of the family downstairs.

"The stairs try my heart, you see," she told Sara, with the martyred
air peculiar to the hypochondriac--the genuine sufferer rarely has it.
"It is, of course, a great deprivation to me, and I don't think either
Dick"--with an inimical glance at her husband--"or Molly come up to
see me as often as they might. Stairs are no difficulty to them."

Selwyn, who invariably ran up to see his wife immediately on his
return from no matter how long or how tiring a round of professional
visits, bit his lip.

"I come as often as I can, Minnie," he said patiently. "You must
remember my time is not my own."

"No, dear, of course not. And I expect that outside patients are much
more interesting to visit than one's own wife," with a disagreeable
little laugh.

"They mean bread-and-butter, anyway," said Selwyn bluntly.

"Of course they do." She turned to Sara. "Dick always thinks in terms
of bread-and-butter, Miss Tennant," she said sneeringly. "But money
means little enough to any one with my poor health. Beyond procuring
me a few alleviations, there is nothing it can do for me."

Sara was privately of the opinion that it had done a good deal for
her. Looking round the luxuriously furnished room with its blazing
fire, and then at Mrs. Selwyn herself, elegantly clad in a rest-gown
of rich silk, she could better understand the poverty-stricken
appearance of the rest of the house, Dick's shabby clothes, and his
willingness to receive a paying guest whose contribution towards the
housekeeping might augment his slender income.

Here, then, was where his hard-earned guineas went--to keep in luxury
this petulant, complaining woman whose entire thoughts were centred
about her own bodily comfort, and whom Patrick Lovell, with his lucid
recognition of values, would have contemptuously described as "a
parasite woman, m'dear--the kind of female I've no use for."

"Oh, Dick"--Mrs. Selwyn had been turning over the pages of a price-
list that was lying on her knee--"I see the World's Store have just
brought out a new kind of adjustable reading-table. It's a much
lighter make than the one I have. I think I should find it easier to
use."

Selwyn's face clouded.

"How much does it cost, dear?" he asked nervously. "These mechanical
contrivances are very expensive, you know."

"Oh, this one isn't. It's only five guineas."

"Five guineas is rather a lot of money, Minnie," he said gravely.
"Couldn't you manage with the table you have for a bit longer?"

Mrs. Selwyn tossed the price-list pettishly on to the floor.

"Of, of course!" she declared. "That's always the way. 'Can't I manage
with what I have? Can't I make do with this, that, and the other?' I
believe you grudge every penny you spend on me!" she wound up
acrimoniously.

A dull red crept into Selwyn's face.

"You know it's not that, Minnie," he replied in a painfully controlled
voice. "It's simply that I can't afford these things. I give you
everything I can. If I were only a rich man, you should have
everything you want."

"Perhaps if you were to work a little more intelligently you'd make
more money," she retorted. "If only you'd keep your brains for the use
of people who can pay--and pay well--I shouldn't be deprived of
every little comfort I ask for! Instead of that, you've got half the
poor of Monkshaven on your hands--and if you think they can't afford
to pay, you simply don't send in a bill. Oh, I know!"--sitting up
excitedly in her chair, a patch of angry scarlet staining each cheek
--"I hear what goes on--even shut away from the world as I am. It's
just to curry popularity--you get all the praise, and I suffer for it!
I have to go without what I want--"

"No, I won't hush! It's 'Doctor Dick this,' and 'Doctor Dick that'--
oh, yes, you see, I know their name for you, these slum patients of
yours!--but it's Doctor Dick's wife who really foots the bills--by
going without what she needs!"

But she had got beyond the stage when the presence of a third person,
even that of an absolute stranger, could be depended upon to exercise
any restraining effect.

"Well, since Miss Tenant's going to live here, the sooner she knows
how things stand the better! She won't be here long without seeing how
I'm treated"--her voice rising hysterically--"set on one side, and
denied even the few small pleasures my health permits----"

She broke off in a storm of angry weeping, and Sara retreated hastily
from the room, leaving husband and wife alone together.

She had barely regained the shabby sitting-room when the front door
opened and closed with a bang, and a gay voice could be heard
calling--

Sara could hear Jane's admonitory whisper, and there followed a
murmured colloquy, punctuated by exclamations and gusts of young
laughter, calling forth renewed remonstrance from Jane, and then the
door of the room was flung open, and Molly Selwyn sailed in and
overwhelmed Sara with apologies for her reception, or rather, for the
lack of it. She was quite charming in her penitence, waving dimpled,
deprecating hands, and appealing to Sara with a pair of liquid,
disarming, golden-brown eyes that earned her forgiveness on the spot.

She was a statuesque young creature, compact of large, soft, gracious
curves and swaying movements--with her nimbus of pale golden hair, and
curiously floating, undulating walk, rather reminding one of a stray
goddess. Always untidy with hooks lacking at important junctures, and
the trimmings of her hats usually pinned on with a casualness that
occasionally resulted in their deserting the hat altogether, she could
still never be other than delightful and irresistibly desirable to
look upon.

Her red, curving mouth of a child, cleft chin, and dimpled, tapering
hands all promised a certain yieldingness of disposition--a tendency
to take always the line of least resistance--but it was a charming,
appealing kind of frailty which most people--the sterner sex,
certainly--would be very ready to condone.

It is a wonderful thing to be young. Molly poured herself out a cup of
hideously stewed tea and drank it joyously to an accompaniment of
shrimps and bread-and-butter, and when Sara uttered a mild protest,
she only laughed and declared that it was a wholesome and digestible
diet compared with some of the "studio teas" perpetrated by the
artists' colony at Oldhampton, of which she was a member.

She chattered away gaily to Sara, giving her vivacious thumb-nail
portraits of her future neighbours--the people Selwyn had described as
being "much nicer than ourselves."

"The Herricks and Audrey Maynard are our most intimate friends--I'm
sure you'll adore them. Mrs. Maynard is a widow, and if she weren't so
frightfully rich, Monkshaven would be perennially shocked at her. She
is ultra-fashionable, and smokes whenever she chooses, and swears when
ordinary language fails her--all of which things, of course, are
anathema to the select circles of Monkshaven. But then she's a
millionaire's widow, so instead of giving her the cold shoulder, every
one gushes round her and declares 'Mrs. Maynard is such a thoroughly
modern type, you know!' "--Molly mimicked the sugar-and-vinegar
accents of the critics to perfection--"and privately Audrey shouts
with laughter at them, while publicly she continues to shock them for
the sheer joy of the thing."

"And who are the Herricks?" asked Sara, smiling. "Married people?"

"No." Molly shook her head. "Miles is a bachelor who lives with a
maiden aunt--Miss Lavinia. Or, rather, she lives with him and
housekeeps for him. 'The Lavender Lady,' I always call her, because
she's one of those delightful old-fashioned people who remind one of
dimity curtains, and pot-pourri, and little muslin bags of lavender.
Miles is a perfect pet, but he's lame, poor dear."

Sara waited with a curious eagerness for any description which might
seem to fit her recent fellow-traveller, but none came, and at last
she threw out a question in the hope of eliciting his name.

"He was horribly ungracious and rude," she added," and yet he didn't
look in the least the sort of man who would be like that. There was no
lack of breeding about him. He was just deliberately snubby--as though
I had no right to exist on the same planet with him--anyway"--laughing
--"not in the same railway compartment."

Molly nodded sagely.

"I believe I know whom you mean. Was he a lean, brown, grim-looking
individual, with the kind of eyes that almost make you jump when they
look at you suddenly?"

"That certainly describes them," admitted Sara, smiling faintly.

"Then it was the Hermit of Far End," announced Molly.

"The Hermit of Far End?"

"Yes. He's a queer, silent man who lives all by himself at a house
built almost on the edge of Monk's Cliff--you must have seen it as you
drove up?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Sara, with sudden enlightenment. "Then his name is
Trent. The cabman presented me with that information," she added, in
answer to Molly's look of surprise.

"Yes--Garth Trent. It's rather an odd name--sounds like a railway
collision, doesn't it? But it suits him somehow"--reflectively.

"Have you met him?" prompted Sara. It was odd how definite an interest
her brief encounter with him had aroused in her.

"Yes--once. He treated me"--giggling delightedly--"rather as if I
wasn't there! At least"--reminiscently--"he tried to."

"It doesn't sound as though he had succeeded?" suggested Sara, amused.

Molly looked at her solemnly.

"He told some one afterwards--Miles Herrick, the only man he ever
speaks to, I think, without compulsion--that I was 'the Delilah type
of woman, and ought to have been strangled at birth.' "

"He must be a charming person," commented Sara ironically.

"Oh, he's a woman-hater--in fact, I believe he has a grudge against
the world in general, but woman in particular. I expect"--shrewdly--
"he's been crossed in love."

At this moment Selwyn re-entered the room, his grave face clearing a
little as he caught sight of his daughter.

"It's a hereditary taint, Dad--don't blame me!" retorted Molly with
lazy impudence, pulling his head down and kissing him on the top of
his ruffled hair.

Selwyn grinned.

"I pass," he submitted. "And who is it that's been crossed in love?"

"The Hermit of Far End."

"Oh"--turning to Sara--"so you have been discussing our local enigma?"

"Yes. I fancy I must have travelled down with him from Oldhampton. He
seemed rather a boorish individual."

"He would be. He doesn't like women."

"Monk's Cliff would appear to be an appropriate habitation for him,
then," commented Sara tartly.

They all laughed, and presently Selwyn suggested that his daughter
should run up and see her mother.

"She'll be hurt if you don't go up, kiddy," he said. "And try and be
very nice to her--she's a little tired and upset to-day."

When she had left the room he turned to Sara, a curious blending of
proud reluctance and regret in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Tennant," he said simply, "that you should have
seen our worst side so soon after your arrival. You--you must try and
pardon it--"

"Oh, please, please don't apologize," broke in Sara hastily. "I'm so
sorry I happened to be there just then. It was horrible for you."

He smiled at her wistfully.

"It's very kind of you to take it like that," he said. "After all"--
frankly--"you could not have remained with us very long without
finding out our particular skeleton in the cupboard. My wife's state
of health--or, rather, what she believes to be her state of health--is
a great grief to me. I've tried in every way to convince her that she
is not really so delicate as she imagines, but I've failed utterly."

Now that the ice was broken, he seemed to find relief in pouring out
the pitiful little tragedy of his home life.

"She is comparatively young, you know, Miss Tennant--only thirty-
seven, and she willfully leads the life of a confirmed invalid. It has
grown upon her gradually, this absorption in her health, and now,
practically speaking, Molly has no mother and I no wife."

"Oh, Doctor Dick"--the little nickname, that had its origin in his
slum patients' simple affection for the man who tended them, came
instinctively from her lips. It seemed, somehow, to fit itself to the
big, kindly man with the sternly rugged face and eyes of a saint. "Oh,
Doctor Dick, I'm so sorry--so very sorry!"

Perhaps something in the dainty, well-groomed air of the woman beside
him helped to accentuate the neglected appearance of the room, for he
looked round in an irritated kind of way, as though all at once
conscious of its deficiencies.

"And this--this, too," he muttered. "There's no one at the helm. . . .
The truth is, I ought never to have let you come here."

Sara shook her head.

"I've very glad I came," she said simply. "I think I'm going to be
very happy here."

"You've got grit," he replied quietly. "You'd make a success of your
life anywhere. I wish"--thoughtfully--"Molly had a little of that same
quality. Sometimes"--a worried frown gathered on his face--"I get
afraid for Molly. She's such a child . . . and no mother to hold the
reins."

"Doctor Dick, would you consider it impertinent if--if I laid my hands
on the reins--just now and then?"

He whirled round, his eyes shining with gratitude.

"Impertinent! I should be illimitably thankful! You can see how things
are--I am compelled to be out all my time, my wife hardly ever leaves
her own rooms, and Molly and the house affairs just get along as best
they can."

"It's absurd!" he exclaimed, regarding her with unfeigned delight.
"Here you come along, prepared, no doubt, to be treated as a 'guest,'
and the first thing I do is to shovel half my troubles on to your
shoulders. It's absurd--disgraceful! . . . But it's amazingly good!"
He held out his hand, and as Sara's slim fingers slid into his big
palm, he muttered a trifle huskily: "God bless you for it, my dear!"

Sara stood on the great headland known as Monk's Cliff, watching with
delight the white-topped billows hurling themselves against its mighty
base, only to break in a baulked fury of thunder and upflung spray.

She had climbed the steep ascent thither on more than one day of storm
and bluster, reveling in the buffeting of the gale and in the pungent
tang of brine from the spray-drenched air. The cry of the wind,
shrieking along the face of the sea-bitten cliff, reminded her of the
scream of the hurricane as it tore through the pinewoods at Barrow--
shaking their giant tops hither and thither as easily as a child's
finger might shake a Canterbury bell.

Something wild and untamed within her responded to the savage movement
of the scene, and she stood for a long time watching the expanse of
restless, wind-tossed waters, before turning reluctantly in the
direction of home. If for nothing else than for this gift of glorious
sea and cliff, she felt she could be content to pitch her tent in
Monkshaven indefinitely.

Her way led past Far End, the solitary house perched on the sloping
side of the headland, and, as she approached, she became aware of a
curious change of character in the sound of the wind. She was
sheltered now from its fiercest onslaught, and it seemed to her that
it rose and fell, moaning in strange, broken cadences, almost like the
singing of a violin.

She paused a moment, thinking at first that this was due to the wind's
whining through some narrow passage betwixt the outbuildings of the
house, then, as the chromatic wailing broke suddenly into vibrating
harmonies, she realized that some one actually was playing the
violin, and playing it remarkably well, too.

Instinctively she yielded to the fascination of it, and, drawing
nearer to the house, leaned against a sheltered wall, all her senses
subordinate to that of hearing.

Whoever the musician might be, he was a thorough master of his
instrument, and Sara listened with delight, recognizing some of the
haunting melodies of the wild Russian music which he was playing--
music that even in its moments of delirious joy seemed to hold always
an underlying bourdon of tragedy and despair.

"Hi, there!"

She started violently. Entirely absorbed in the music, she had failed
to observe a man, dressed in the style of an indoor servant, who had
appeared in the doorway of one of the outbuildings and who now
addressed her in peremptory tones.

"I didn't know that Monk's Cliff was private property," she said after
a pause.

"Nor is it, that I know of. But you're on the Far End estate now--this
is a private road," replied the man disagreeably. "You'll please to
take yourself off."

A faint flush of indignation crept up under the warm pallor of Sara's
skin. Then, a sudden thought striking her, she asked--

"Who is that playing the violin?"

Mentally she envisioned a pair of sensitive, virile hands, lean and
brown, with the short, well-kept nails that any violinist needs must
have--the contradictory hands which had aroused her interest on the
journey to Monkshaven.

"I don't hear no one playing," replied the man stolidly. She felt
certain he was lying, but he gave her no opportunity for further
interrogation, for he continued briskly--

"Certainly I'll go," she said. "I'm sorry. I had no idea that I was
trespassing."

The man's truculent manner softened, as, with the intuition of his
kind, he recognized in the composed little apology the utterance of
one of his "betters."

"Beggin' your pardon, miss," he said, with a considerable accession of
civility, "but it's as much as my place is worth to allow a trespasser
here on Far End."

Sara nodded.

"You're perfectly right to obey orders," she said, and bending her
steps towards the public road from which she had strayed to listen to
the unseen musician, she made her way homewards.

"Your mysterious 'Hermit' is nothing if not thorough," she told Doctor
Dick and Molly on her return. "I trespassed on to the Far End property
to-day, and was ignominiously ordered off by a rather aggressive
person, who, I suppose, is Mr. Trent's servant."

"That would be Judson," nodded Selwyn. "I've attended him once or
twice professionally. The fellow's all right, but he's under strict
orders, I believe, to allow no trespassers."

"So it seems," returned Sara. "By the way, who is the violinist at Far
End? Is it the 'Hermit' himself?"

"It's rumoured that he does play," said Molly. "But no one has ever
been privileged to hear him."

"On the sole occasion I met him, I asked him why no one was ever
allowed to hear him play," she said, chuckling. "I even suggested that
he might contribute a solo to the charity concert we were getting up
at the time!"

"And what did he say?" asked Sara, smiling.

"Told me that there was no need for a man to exhibit his soul to the
public! So I asked him what he meant, and he said that if I understood
anything about music I would know, and that if I didn't, it was a
waste of his time trying to explain. Do you know what he meant?"

"Yes," said Sara slowly, "I think I do." And recalling the passionate
appeal and sadness of the music she had heard that afternoon, she was
conscious of a sudden quick sense of pity for the solitary hermit of
Far End. He was afraid--afraid to play to any one, lest he should
reveal some inward bitterness of his soul to those who listened!

The following day, Molly carried Sara off to Rose Cottage to make the
acquaintance of "the Lavender Lady" and her nephew.

Miss Herrick--or Miss Lavinia, as she was invariably addressed--looked
exactly as though she had just stepped out of the early part of last
century. She wore a gown of some soft, silky material, sprigged with
heliotrope, and round her neck a fichu of cobwebby lace, fastened at
the breast with a cameo brooch of old Italian workmanship. A
coquettish little lace cap adorned the silver-grey hair, and the face
beneath the cap was just what you would have expected to find it--soft
and very gentle, its porcelain pink and white a little faded, the
pretty old eyes a misty, lavender blue.

She was alone when the two girls arrived, and greeted Sara with a
humorous little smile.

"How kind of you to come, Miss Tennant! We've been all agog to meet
you, Miles and I. In a tiny place like Monkshaven, you see, every one
knows every one else's business, so of course we have been hearing of
you constantly."

Miss Lavinia's face sobered suddenly, a shadow falling across her kind
old eyes.

"Miles is--rather difficult about calling," she said hesitatingly.
"You will understand--his lameness makes him a little self-conscious
with strangers," she explained.

Sara looked distressed.

"Oh! Perhaps it would have been better if I had not come?" she
suggested hastily. "Shall I run away and leave Molly here?"

Miss Lavinia flushed rose-pink.

"My dear, I hope Miles knows how to welcome a guest in his own house
as befits a Herrick," she said, with a delicious little air of old-
world dignity. "Indeed, it is an excellent thing for him to be dragged
out of his shell. Only, please--will you remember?--treat him exactly
as though he were not lame--never try to help him in any way. It is
that which hurts him so badly--when people make allowances for his
lameness. Just ignore it."

Sara nodded. She could understand that instinctive man's pride which
recoiled from any tolerant recognition of a physical handicap.

"Was his lameness caused by an accident?" she asked.

"It came through a very splendid deed." Little Miss Lavinia's eyes
glowed as she spoke. "He stopped a pair of runaway carriage-horses.
They had taken fright at a motor-lorry, and, when they bolted, the
coachman was thrown from the box, so that it looked as if nothing
could save the occupants of the carriage. Miles flung himself at the
horses' heads, and although, of course, he could not actually stop
them single-handed, he so impeded their progress that a second man,
who sprang forward to help, was able to bring them to a standstill."

"Ah! My dear," she said sadly, "splendid things are done at such a
cost, and when they are over we are apt to forget the splendour and
remember only the heavy price. . . . My poor Miles was horribly
injured--he had been dragged for yards, clinging to the horses'
bridles--and for weeks we were not even sure if he would live. He has
lived--but he will walk lame to the end of his life."

The little instinctive silence which followed was broken by the sound
of voices in the hall outside, and, a minute later, Miles Herrick
himself came into the room, escorting a very fashionably attired and
distinctly attractive woman, whom Sara guessed at once to be Audrey
Maynard.

She was not in the least pretty, but the narrowest of narrow skirts in
vogue in the spring of 1914 made no secret of the fact that her figure
was almost perfect. Her face was small and thin and inclined to be
sallow, and beneath upward-slanting brows, to which art had
undoubtedly added something, glimmered a pair of greenish-grey eyes,
clear like rain. Nor was there any mistaking the fact that the rich
copper-colour of the hair swathed beneath the smart little hat had
come out of a bottle, and was in no way to be accredited to nature. It
was small wonder that primitive Monkshaven stood aghast at such
flagrant tampering with the obvious intentions of Providence.

But notwithstanding her up-to-date air of artificiality, there was
something immensely likeable about Audrey Maynard. Behind it all, Sara
sensed the real woman--clever, tactful, and generously warm-hearted.

Woman, when all is said and done, is frankly primitive in her
instincts, and the desire to attract--with all its odd manifestations
--is really but the outcome of her innate desire for home and a mate.
It is this which lies at the root of most of her little vanities and
weaknesses--and of all the big sacrifices of which she is capable as
well. So she may be forgiven the former, and trusted to fall short but
rarely of the latter when the crucial test comes.

"Miles and I have been--as usual--squabbling violently," announced
Mrs. Maynard. "Sugar, please--lots of it," she added, as Herrick
handed her her tea. "It was about the man who lives at Far End," she
continued in reply to the Lavender Lady's smiling query. "Miles has
been very irritating, and tried to smash all my suggested theories to
bits. He insists that the Hermit is quite a commonplace, harmless
young man--"

"He must be at least forty," interposed Herrick mildly.

Audrey frowned him into silence and continued--

"Now that's so dull, when half Monkshaven believes him to be a villain
of the deepest dye, hiding from justice--or, possibly, a Bluebeard
with an unhappy wife imprisoned somewhere in that weird old house of
his."

Sara listened with undignified interest. It was strange how the
enigmatical personality of the owner of Far End kept cropping up
across her path.

Herrick smiled tolerantly. He was a tall, slenderly built man, with
whimsical brown eyes and the half-stern, half-sweet mouth of one who
has been through the mill of physical pain.

"Homme incompris," he suggested lightly. "Give the fellow his due--
he at least supplies the feminine half of Monkshaven with a topic of
perennial interest."

Audrey took up the implied challenge with enthusiasm, and the two of
them wrangled comfortably together till tea was over. Then she
demanded a cigarette--and another cushion--and finally sent Miles in
search of some snapshots they had taken together and which he had
developed since last they had met. She treated him exactly as though
he suffered no handicap, demanding from him all the little services
she would have asked from a man who was physically perfect.

Sara herself, accustomed to anticipating every need of Patrick
Lovell's, would have been inclined to feel somewhat compunctious over
allowing a lame man to wait upon her, yet, as she watched the eager
way in which Miles responded to the visitor's behests, she realized
that in reality Audrey was behaving with supreme tact. She let Miles
feel himself a man as other men, not a mere "lame duck" to whom
indulgence must needs be granted.

And once, when her hair just brushed his cheek, as he stooped over her
to indicate some special point in one of the recently developed
photos, Sara surprised a sudden ardent light in his quiet brown eyes
that set her wondering whether possibly, the incessant sparring
between Herrick and the lively, impulsive woman who shocked half
Monkshaven, did not conceal something deeper than mere friendship.

It was one of those surprisingly warm days, holding a foretaste of
June's smiles, which March occasionally vouchsafes.

The sun blazed down out of a windless, cloudless sky, and Sara, making
her way leisurely through the straggling woods that intervened betwixt
the Selwyns' house and Monk's Cliff, felt the salt-laden air wafted
against her face, as warmly mellow as though summer were already come.

Molly had gone to Oldhampton--since the artists' colony there would be
certain to take advantage of this gift of a summer's day to arrange a
sketching party, and, as the morning's post had brought Sara a letter
from Elisabeth Durward which had occasioned her considerable turmoil
of spirit, she had followed her natural bent by seeking the solitude
of a lonely tramp in order to think the matter out.

From her earliest days at Barrow she had always carried the small
tangles of childhood to a remote corner of the pine-woods for
solution, and the habit had grown with her growth, so that now, when a
rather bigger tangle presented itself, she turned instinctively to the
solitude of the cliffs at Monkshaven, where the murmur of the sea was
borne in her ears, plaintively reminiscent of the sound of the wind in
her beloved pine trees.

Spring comes early in the sheltered, southern bay of Monkshaven, and
already the bracken was sending up pushful little shoots of young
green, curled like a baby's fist, while the primroses, bunched
together in clusters, thrust peering faces impertinently above the
green carpet of the woods. Sara stopped to pick a handful, tucking
them into her belt. Then, emerging from the woods, she breasted the
steep incline that led to the brow of the cliff.

A big boulder, half overgrown with moss and lichen, offered a tempting
resting-place, and flinging herself down on the yielding turf beside
it, she leaned back and drew out Elisabeth's letter.

She had sometimes wondered whether Elisabeth had any suspicion of the
fact that, before leaving Barrow, she had refused to marry Tim. The
friendship and understanding between mother and son was so deep that
it was very possible that Tim had taken her into his confidence. And
even if he had not, the eyesight of love is extraordinarily keen, and
Elisabeth would almost inevitably have divined that something was
amiss with his happiness.

If this were so, as Sara admitted to herself with a wry smile, there
was little doubt that she would look askance at the woman who had had
the temerity to refuse her beautiful Tim!

And now, although her letter contained no definite allusion to the
matter, reading between the lines, the conviction was borne in upon
Sara that Elisabeth knew all that there was to know, and had ranged
herself, heart and soul, on the side of her son.

It was obvious that she thought of the whole world in terms of Tim,
and, had she been a different type of woman, the simile of a hen with
one chick would have occurred to Sara's mind.

But there was nothing in the least hen-like about Elisabeth Durward.
Only, whenever Tim came near her, her face, with its strangely
inscrutable eyes, would irradiate with a sudden warmth and tenderness
of emotion that was akin to the exquisite rapture of a lover when the
beloved is near. To Sara, there seemed something a little frightening
--almost terrible--in her intense devotion to Tim.

The letter itself was charmingly written--expressing the hope that
Sara was happy and comfortable at Monkshaven, recalling their pleasant
time at Barrow together, and looking forward to other future visits
from her--"which would be a fulfillment of happiness to us all."

It was this last sentence, combined with one or two other phrases into
which much or little meaning might equally as easily be read, which
had aroused in Sara a certain uneasy instinct of apprehension. Dimly
she sensed a vague influence at work to strengthen the ties that bound
her to Barrow, and to all that Barrow signified.

She faced the question with characteristic frankness. Tim had his own
place in her heart--secure and unassailable. But it was not the place
in that sacred inner temple which is reserved for the one man, and she
recognized this with a limpid clearness of perception rather uncommon
in a girl of twenty. She also recognized that it was within the bounds
of possibility that the one man might never come to claim that place,
and that, if she gave Tim the answer he so ardently desired, they
would quite probably rub along together as well as most married folk--
better, perhaps, than a good many. But she was very sure that she
never intended to desecrate that inner temple by any lesser substitute
for love.

Thus she reasoned, with the untried confidence of youth, which is so
pathetically certain of itself and of its ultimate power to hold to
its ideals, ignorant of the overpowering influences which may develop
to push a man or woman this way or that, or of the pain that may turn
clear, definite thought into a welter of blind anguish, when the soul
in its agony snatches at any anodyne, true or false, which may seem to
promise relief.

A little irritably she folded up Elisabeth's letter. It was
disquieting in some ways--she could not quite explain why--and just
now she felt averse to wrestling with disturbing ideas. She only
wanted to lie still, basking in the tranquil peace of the afternoon,
and listen to the murmuring voice of the sea.

She closed her eyes indolently, and presently, lulled by the drowsy
rhythm of the waves breaking at the foot of the cliff, she fell
asleep.

She woke with a start. An ominous drop of rain had splashed down on to
her cheek, and she sat up, broad awake in an instant and shivering a
little. It had turned much colder, and a wind had risen which
whispered round her of coming storm, while the blue sky of an hour ago
was hidden by heavy, platinum-coloured clouds massing up from the
south.

Another and another raindrop fell, and, obeying their warning, Sara
sprang up and bent her steps in the direction of home. But she was too
late to avoid the storm which had been brewing, and before she had
gone a hundred yards it had begun to break in drifting scurries of
rain, driven before the wind.

She hurried on, hoping to gain the shelter of the woods before the
threatened deluge, but within ten minutes of the first heralding drops
it was upon her--a torrent of blinding rain, sweeping across the
upland like a wet sheet.

She looked about her desperately, in search of cover, and perceiving,
on the further side of a low stone wall, what she took to be a wooden
shelter for cattle, she quickened her steps to a run, and, nimbly
vaulting the wall, fled headlong into it.

It was not, however, the cattle shed she had supposed it, but a
roughly constructed summer-house, open on one side to the four winds
of heaven and with a wooden seat running round the remaining three.

Sara guessed immediately that she must have trespassed again on the
Far End property, but reflecting that neither its owner nor his lynx-
eyed servant was likely to be abroad in such a downpour as this, and
that, even if they were, and chanced to discover her, they could
hardly object to her taking refuge in this outlying shelter, she shook
the rain from her skirts and sat down to await the lifting of the
storm.

As always in such circumstances, the time seemed to pass inordinately
slowly, but in reality she had not been there more than a quarter of
an hour before she observed the figure of a man emerge from some
trees, a few hundred yards distant, and come towards her, and despite
the fact that he was wearing a raincoat, with the collar turned up to
his ears, and a tweed cap pulled well down over his head, she had no
difficulty in recognizing in the approaching figure her fellow-
traveller of the journey to Monkshaven.

Evidently he had not seen her, for she could hear him whistling softly
to himself as he approached, while with the fingers of one hand he
drummed on his chest as though beating out the rhythm of the melody he
was whistling--a wild, passionate refrain from Wieniawski's exquisite
Legende. It sounded curiously in harmony with the tempest that raged
about him.

For himself, he appeared to regard the storm with indifference--almost
to welcome it, for more than once Sara saw him raise his head as
though he were glad to feel the wind and rain beating against his
face.

She drew back a little into the shadows of the summer-house, hoping he
might turn aside without observing her, since, from all accounts,
Garth Trent was hardly the type of man to welcome a trespasser upon
his property.

But he came straight on towards her, and an instant later she knew
that her presence was discovered, for he stopped abruptly and peered
through the driving rain in the direction of the summer-house. Then,
quickening his steps, he rapidly covered the intervening space and
halted on the threshold of the shelter.

"What the devil----" he began, then paused and stared down at her with
an odd glint of amusement in his eyes. "So it's you, is it?" he said
at last, with a short laugh.

Once again Sara was conscious of the extraordinary intensity of his
regard, and now, as a sudden ragged gleam of sunlight pierced the
clouds, falling athwart his face, she realized what it was that
induced it. In both eyes the clear hazel of the iris was broken by a
tiny, irregularly shaped patch of vivid blue, close to the pupil, and
its effect was to give that curious depth and intentness of expression
which Molly had tried to describe when she had said that Garth Trent's
were the kind of eyes which "make you jump if he looked at you
suddenly."

Sara almost jumped now; then, supported by her indignant recollection
of the man's churlishness on a former occasion, she bowed silently.

He continued to regard her with that lurking suggestion of amusement
at the back of his eyes, and she was annoyed to feel herself flushing
uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny. At last he spoke again.

"You seem to have a faculty for intrusion," he remarked drily.

Sara's eyes flashed.

"And you, a fancy for solitude," she retorted.

"Exactly." He bowed ironically. "Perhaps you would oblige me by
considering it?" And he drew politely aside as though to let her pass
out in front of him.

Sara cast a dismayed glance at the rain, which was still descending in
torrents. Then she turned to him indignantly.

"Do you mean that you're going to insist on my starting out in this
storm?" she demanded.

"Don't you know that you've no right to be here at all--that you're
trespassing?" he parried coolly.

"Of course I know it! But I didn't expect that any one in the world
would object to my trespassing in the circumstances!"

"You must not judge me by other people," he replied composedly. "I am
not--like them."

"You're not, indeed," agreed Sara warmly.

"And your tone implies 'thanks be,' " he supplemented with a faint
smile. "Oh, well," he went on ungraciously, "stay if you like--so long
as you don't expect me to stay with you."

Sara hastily disclaimed any such desire, and, lifting his cap, he
turned and strode away into the rain.

Another ten minutes crawled by, and still the rain came down as
persistently as though it intended never to cease again. Sara
fidgeted, and walked across impatiently to the open front of the
summer-house, staring up moodily at the heavy clouds. They showed no
signs of breaking, and she was just about to resume her weary waiting
on the seat within the shelter, when quick steps sounded to her left,
and Garth Trent reappeared, carrying an umbrella and with a man's
overcoat thrown over his arm.

"It's going to rain for a good two hours yet," he said abruptly.
"You'd better come up to the house."

Sara gazed at him in silent amazement; the invitation was so totally
unexpected that for the moment she had no answer ready.

"Unless," he added sneeringly, misinterpreting her silence, "you're
afraid of the proprieties?"

"I'm far more afraid of taking cold," she replied promptly, preparing
to evacuate the summer-house.

"Here, put this on," he said gruffly, holding out the coat he had
brought with him. "There's no object in getting any wetter than you
must."

He helped her into the coat, buttoning it carefully under her chin,
his dexterous movements and quiet solicitude contrasting curiously
with the detachment of his manner whilst performing these small
services. He was so altogether business-like and unconcerned that Sara
felt not unlike a child being dressed by a conscientious but entirely
disinterested nurse. When he had fastened the last button of the long
coat, which came down to her heels, he unfurled the umbrella and held
it over her.

"Keep close to me, please," he said briefly, nor did he volunteer any
further remark until they had accomplished the journey to the house,
and were standing together in the old-fashioned hall which evidently
served him as a living room.

Here Trent relieved her of the coat, and while she stood warming her
feet at the huge log-fire, blazing half-way up the chimney, he rang
for his servant and issued orders for tea to be brought, as composedly
as though visitors of the feminine persuasion were a matter of
everyday occurrence.

Sara, catching a glimpse of Judson's almost petrified face of
astonishment as he retreated to carry out his master's instructions,
and with a vivid recollection of her last encounter with him, almost
laughed out loud.

"Please sit down," said Trent. "And"--with a glance towards her feet--
"you had better take off those wet shoes."

There was something in his curt manner of giving orders--rather as
though he were a drill-sergeant, Sara reflected--that aroused her to
opposition. She held out her feet towards the blaze of the fire.

"No, thank you," she replied airily. "They'll dry like this."

As she spoke, she glanced up and encountered a sudden flash in his
eyes like the keen flicker of a sword-blade. Without vouchsafing any
answer, he knelt down beside her and began to unlace her shoes,
finally drawing them off and laying them sole upwards, in front of the
fire to dry. Then he passed his hand lightly over her stockinged feet.

"Wringing wet!" he remarked curtly. "Those silk absurdities must come
off as well."

Sara sprang up.

"No!" she said firmly. "They shall not!"

He looked at her, again with that glint of mocking amusement with
which he had first greeted her presence in his summer-house.

"You'd rather have a bad cold?" he suggested.

"Ever so much rather!" retorted Sara hardily.

He gave a short laugh, almost as though he could not help himself,
and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned and marched out of the
room.

Left alone, Sara glanced about her in some surprise at the evidences
of a cultivated taste and love of beauty which the room supplied. It
was not quite the sort of abode she would have associated with the
grim, misanthropic type of man she judged her host to be.

The old-fashioned note, struck by the huge oaken beams supporting the
ceiling and by the open hearth, had been retained throughout, and
every detail--the blue willow-pattern china on the old oak dresser,
the dimly lustrous pewter perched upon the chimney-piece, the silver
candle-sconces thrusting out curved, gleaming arms from the paneled
walls--was exquisite of its kind. It reminded her of the old hall at
Barrow, where she and Patrick had been wont to sit and yarn together
on winter evenings.

The place had a well-tended air, too, and Sara, who waged daily war
against the slovenly shabbiness prevalent at Sunnyside, was all at
once sensible of how desperately she had missed the quiet perfection
of the service at Barrow. The nostalgia for her old home--the
unquenchable, homesick longing for the place that has held one's
happiness--rushed over her in a overwhelming flood.

Wishing she had never come to this house, which had so stirred old
memories, she got up restlessly, driven by a sudden impulse to escape,
just as the door opened to re-admit Garth Trent.

He gave her a swift, searching glance.

"Sit down again," he commanded. "There"--gravely depositing a towel
and a pair of men's woolen socks on the floor beside her--"dry your
feet and put those socks on."

He moved quickly away towards the window and remained there, with his
back turned studiously towards her, while she obeyed his instructions.
When she had hung two very damp black silk stockings on the fire-dogs
to dry, she flung a somewhat irritated glance at him over her
shoulder.

"You can come back," she said in a small voice.

He came, and stood staring down at the two woolly socks protruding
from beneath the short, tweed skirt. The suspicion of a smile curved
his lips.

"They're several sizes too large," he observed. "Odd creatures you
women are," he went on suddenly, after a brief silence. "You shy
wildly at the idea of letting a man see the foot God gave you, but
you've no scruples at all about letting any one see the selfishness
that the devil's put into your hearts."

He spoke with a kind of savage contempt; it was as though the speech
were tinged with some bitter personal memory.

Sara's eyes surveyed him calmly.

"I've no intention of making an exhibit of my heart," she observed
mildly.

"It's wiser not, probably," he retorted disagreeably, and at that
moment Judson came into the room and began to arrange the tea-table
beside his master's chair.

"Put it over there," directed Trent sharply, indicating with a gesture
that the table should be placed near his guest, and Judson, his face
manifesting rather more surprise than is compatible with the wooden
mask demanded of the well-trained servant, hastened to comply.

When he had readjusted the position of the tea-table, he moved quietly
about the room, drawing the curtains and lighting the candles in their
silver sconces, so that little pools of yellow light splashed down on
to the smooth surface of the oak floor--waxed and polished till it
gleamed like black ivory.

As he withdrew unobtrusively towards the door, Trent tossed him a
further order.

"I shall want the car round in a couple of hours--at six," he said,
and smiled straight into Sara's startled eyes.

She handed him his cup and poured out another for herself. Then she
said lightly:

"I heard you order your car. Is this quite a suitable afternoon for
joy-riding?"

"More so than for walking," he retaliated. "I'm going to drive you
home."

"At six o'clock?"

"At six o'clock."

"And suppose I wish to leave before then?"

He cast an expressive glance towards the windows, where the rain could
be heard beating relentlessly against the panes.

"It's quite up to you . . . to walk home."

Sara made a small grimace of disgust.

"Otherwise," she said tentatively, "I am going to stay here, whether I
will or no?"

He nodded.

"Yes. It's my birthday, and I'm proposing to make myself a present of
an hour or two of your society," he replied composedly.

Sara regarded him with curiosity. He had been openly displeased to
find her trespassing on his estate--which was only what current report
would have led her to expect--yet now he was evincing a desire for her
company, and, in addition, a very determined intention to secure it.
The man was an enigma!

"I'm surprised," she said lightly. "I gathered from a recent remark of
yours that you didn't think too highly of women."

"I don't," he replied with uncompromising directness.

"Then why--why----"

"Perhaps I have a fancy to drop back for a brief space into the life I
have renounced," he suggested mockingly.

"Then you really are what they call you--a hermit?"

"I really am."

"And feminine society is taboo?"

"Entirely--as a rule." If, for an instant, the faintest of smiles
modified the grim closing of his lips, Sara failed to notice it.

The cold detachment of his answer irritated her. It was as though he
intended to remain, hermit-like, within his shell, and she had a
suspicion that behind this barricade he was laughing at her for her
ineffectual attempts to dig him out of it with a pin.

"I suppose some woman didn't fall into your arms just when you wanted
her to?" she hazarded.

She had not calculated the result of this thrust. His eyes blazed for
a moment. Then, a shade of contempt blending with the former cool
insouciance of his tone, he said quietly:

"You don't expect an answer to that question, do you?"

The snub was unmistakable, and Sara's cheeks burned. She felt heartily
ashamed of herself, and yet, incongruously, she was half inclined to
lay the blame for her impertinent speech on his shoulders. He had
almost challenged her to deal a blow that should crack that impervious
shell of his.

She glanced across at him beneath her lashes, and in an instant all
thought of personal dignity was wiped out by the look of profound pain
that she surprised in his face. Her shrewd question, uttered almost
unthinkingly in the cut-and-thrust of repartee, had got home somewhere
on an old wound.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed contritely.

She could only assume that he had not heard her low-voiced apology,
for, when he turned to her again, he addressed her exactly as though
she had not spoken.

"Try some of these little hot cakes," he said, tendering a plateful.
"They are quite one of Mrs. Judson's specialties."

With amazing swiftness he had reassumed his mask. The bright, hazel
eyes were entirely free from any hint of pain, and his voice held
nothing more than conventional politeness. Sara meekly accepted one of
the cakes in question, and for a little while the conversation ran on
stereotyped lines.

Presently, when tea was over, he offered her a cigarette.

"I have not forgotten your tastes, you see," he said, smiling.

"I do smoke," she admitted. "But"--the confession came with a rush,
and she did not quite know what impelled her to make it--"I smoked--
that day in the train--out of sheer defiance."

"I was sure of it," he responded in amused tones. "But now"--striking
a match and holding it for her to light her cigarette--"you will smoke
because you really like it, and because it would be a friendly action
and condone the fact that you are being held a prisoner against your
will."

Sara smiled.

"It is a very charming prison," she said, contemplating the harmony of
the room with satisfied eyes.

"You like it?" he asked eagerly.

She looked at him in surprise. What could it matter to him whether she
liked it or not?

"Why, of course, I like it," she replied. "Who wouldn't? You see," she
added a little wistfully, "I have no home of my own now, so I have to
enjoy other people's."

"I have no home, either," he said shortly.

"But--but this----"

"Is the house in which I live. One wants more than a few sticks of
furniture to make a home."

Sara was struck by the intense bitterness in his tone. Truly this man,
with his lightning changes from boorish incivility to whole-hearted
hospitality, from apparently impenetrable reserve to an almost
desperate outspokenness, was as incomprehensible as any sphinx.

She hastily steered the conversation towards a less dangerous channel,
and gradually they drifted into the discussion of art and music; and
Sara, not without some inward trepidation--remembering Molly's
experience--touched on his own musicianship.

"It was surely you I herd?" she queried a trifle hesitatingly. "You
were playing some Russian music that I knew. Your man ordered me off
the premises"--smiling a little--"so I didn't hear as much as I should
have liked."

"Is that a hint?" he asked whimsically.

"A broad one. Please take it."

He hesitated a moment. Then--

"Very well," he said abruptly.

He rose and led the way into an adjoining room.

Like the hall they had just quitted, it was pleasantly illumined by
candles in silver sconces, and had evidently been arranged to serve
exclusively as a music-room, for it contained practically no furniture
beyond a couple of chairs, and a beautiful mahogany cabinet, of which
the doors stood open, revealing sliding shelves crammed full of
musical scores.

A grand piano was so placed that the light from either window or
candles would fall comfortably upon the music-desk; and on a stool
beside it rested a violin case.

Trent opened the case, and, lifting the violin from is cushiony bed of
padded satin, fingered it caressingly.

"Can you read accompaniments?" he asked, flashing the question at her
with his usual abruptness.

"Yes." Sara's answer came simply, minus the mock-modest tag: "A
little," or "I'll do my best," which most people seem to think it
incumbent on them to add, in the circumstances.

It is one of the mysteries of convention why, when you are perfectly
aware that you can do a thing, and do it well, you are expected to
depreciate your capability under penalty of being accounted
overburdened with conceit should you fail to do so.

"Good." Trent pulled out an armful of music from the cabinet and
looked through it rapidly.

"We'll have some of these." ("These" being several suites for violin
and piano.)

Sara's lips twitched. He was testing her rather highly, since the
pianoforte score of the suites in question was by no means easy. But,
thanks to the wisdom of Patrick Lovell, who had seen to it that she
studied under one of the finest masters of the day, she was not a
musician by temperament alone, but had also a surprisingly good
technique.

At the close of the second suite, Trent turned to her
enthusiastically, his face aglow. For the moment he was no longer the
hermit, aloof and enigmatical, but an eager comrade, spontaneously
appealing to a congenial spirit.

"That went splendidly, didn't it?" he exclaimed. "The pianoforte score
is a pretty stiff one, but I was sure"--smilingly--"from the downright
way you answered my question about accompaniments, that you'd prove
equal to it."

Sara smiled back at him.

"I didn't think it necessary to make any conventional professions of
modesty--to you," she said. "You don't--wrap things up much--
yourself."

He leaned against the piano, looking down at her.

"No. Nothing I say can make things either better or worse for me, so I
have at least gained freedom from the conventions. That is one of my
few compensations."

"Compensations for what?" The question escaped her almost before she
was aware, and she waited for the snub which she felt would inevitably
follow her second indiscretion that afternoon.

But it did not come. Instead, he fenced adroitly.

"Compensation for the limitations of a hermit's life," he said
lightly.

"The life is your own choice," she flashed back at him.

"Oh, no, we're not always given a choice, you know. This world isn't a
kind of sublimated children's party."

She regarded him thoughtfully.

"I think," she said gravely, "we always get back out of life just what
we put into it."

His mouth twisted ironically.

"That's a charming doctrine, but I'm afraid I can't subscribe to it. I
put in--all my capital. And I've drawn a blank."

His tone implied a kind of strange, numb acceptance of an inimical
destiny, and Sara was conscious of a rush of intense pity towards this
man whose implacably cynical outlook manifested itself in almost every
word he uttered. It was no mere pose on his part--of that she felt
assured--but something ingrained, grafted on to his very nature by the
happenings of life.

Rather girlishly she essayed to combat it.

"You're not at the end of life yet."

He smiled at her--a sudden, rare smile of extraordinary sweetness. Her
intention was so unmistakable--so touchingly ingenious, as are all
youth's attempts to heal a bitterness that lies beyond its ken.

"There are no more lucky dips left in life's tub for me, I'm afraid,"
he said gently.

Sara seized upon the opening afforded.

"Of course not--if you persist in keeping to the role of looker-on,"
she retorted.

He regarded her gravely.

"Unfortunately, I've no longer any right to dip my head into the tub.
Even if I chanced to draw a prize--I should only have to put it back
again."

The quiet irrevocableness of his answer shook her optimism.

"I--don't understand," she said hesitatingly.

"No?"--his tones hardened suddenly. "It's just as well you shouldn't,
perhaps."

The abrupt alteration in his manner took her by surprise. All at once,
he seemed to have retreated into his shell, to have become again the
curt, ironic individual of their first meeting.

"I think," he went on, tranquilly ignoring the mixture of chagrin and
amazement in her face, "I think I hear the car coming round. You had
better put on your shoes and stockings again--they'll be dry now--and
then we can start. It's no longer raining."

Sara felt as though she had been suddenly relegated to a position of
utter unimportance. He was showing her that, as far as he was
concerned, she was a person of not the slightest consequence, treating
her like an inquisitive child. Their recent conversation, during which
his mantle of reserve had slipped a little aside, the music they had
shared, when for a brief time they had walked together in the pleasant
paths of mutual understanding, all seemed to have receded an immense
distance away. As she took her place in the car, she could almost have
believed that the incidents of the afternoon were a dream, and nothing
more.

Trent sat silently beside her, his attention apparently concentrated
on the driving of the car. Once he asked her if she were warm enough,
and, upon her replying in the affirmative, lapsed again into silence.

Gaining security from his abstraction, Sara ventured to steal a side-
glance at his face. It was a curiously contradictory face, hard and
bitter-looking, yet the reckless mouth curved sensitively at the
corners, and the tolerant, humorous lines about the eyes seemed to
combat the impression of almost brutal force conveyed by the frowning
brows and square, dominant chin.

Always acutely sensible of temperament, Sara felt as though the man
beside her might be capable of any extreme of action. Whatever
decision he might adopt over any given matter, he would hold by it,
come what may, and she was aware of an odd reflex consciousness of
feminine inadequacy. To influence Garth Trent against his convictions
would be like trying to deflect the course of a river by laying a
straw across its track.

The primitive woman in her thrilled a little, responsively, and she
wondered whether or no her sex had played much part in his life. He
was a woman-hater--so Molly had told her--yet Sara could imagine him
in a very different role. Of one thing she was sure--that the woman
who was loved by Garth Trent would anchor in no placid back-water.
Life, for her, would hold something breathless, vital, exultant . . .

"Well, have you decided yet?"

The ironical voice broke sharply into the midst of her fugitive
thoughts, and Sara jumped violently, flushing scarlet as she found
Trent's eyes surveying her with a quietly quizzical expression.

"Decided what?" she asked defensively.

"Where to place me--whether among the sheep or the goats. You were
dissecting my character, weren't you?"

He waited for an answer, but Sara maintained an embarrassed silence.
He had divined the subject of her thoughts too nearly.

He laughed.

"The decision has gone against me, I see. Well, I'm not surprised.
I've certainly treated you with a rather rough-and-ready kind of
courtesy. You must try to pardon me. A hermit gets little practice at
entertaining angels unawares."

Sara, recovering her composure, regarded him placidly.

"You might find many opportunities for practice in Monkshaven," she
suggested.

"In Monkshaven? Are you trying to suggest that I should ingratiate
myself with the leading lights of local society?"

She nodded.

"Why not?"

He laughed as though genuinely amused.

"Perhaps you've not been here long enough yet to discover that the
amiable inhabitants of Monkshaven look upon me as a sort of cross
between a madman and a criminal who has eluded justice."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Oh, mine, I suppose"--quickly. "But it doesn't matter--since I regard
them as a set of harmless, conventional fools. No, thank you, I've no
intention of making friends with the people of Monkshaven."

"They're not all conventional. Some of them are rather interesting--
Mrs. Maynard, for instance, and the Herricks."

He gave her a keen glance.

"Do you know the Herricks?"

"Yes. Why don't you go to see them sometimes? Miles--"

"Oh, Miles Herrick's all right. I know that," he interrupted.

"It's very bad for you to cut yourself off from the rest of the world,
as you do," persisted Sara sagely.

He was silent for a while, his eyes intent on the strip of road that
stretched in front of him, and when he spoke again it was to draw her
attention to the effect of the cloud shadows moving across the sea,
exactly as though nothing of greater interest had been under
discussion.

She began to recognize as a trick of his this abrupt method of
terminating a conversation that for some reason did not please him. It
was as conclusive as when the man at the other end of the 'phone
suddenly "rings off" without any preliminary warning.

By this time they had reached the steep hill that approached directly
to the Selwyns' house, and a couple of minutes later, Trent brought
the car to a standstill at the gate.

"You have nothing to thank me for," he said, curtly dismissing her
expression of thanks as they stood together on the path. "It is I who
should be grateful to you. My opportunities of social intercourse"--
drily--"are somewhat limited."

"Extend them, then, as I advised," retorted Sara.

"Do you wish me to?" he asked swiftly, and his intent eyes sought her
face with a sudden hawk-like glance.

Her own eyes fell. She was conscious, all at once, of an inexplicable
agitation, a tremulous confusion that made it seem a physical
impossibility to reply.

But he still waited for his answer, and, at last, with an effort she
mastered the nervousness that had seized her.

It had not taken Sara very long to cut a niche for herself in the
household at Sunnyside. In a dwelling where the master of the house
was away the greater part of the day, the mistress a chronic invalid,
and the daughter a beautiful young thing whose mind was intent upon
"colour" and "atmosphere," and altogether hazy concerning the
practical necessities of housekeeping, the advent of any one
possessing even half Sara's intelligent efficiency would have been
provocative of many reforms.

Dick Selwyn, pushed to the uttermost limits of his strength by the
demands of his wide practice and by the nervous strain of combating
his wife's incessant fretfulness, quickly learned to turn to Sara for
that sympathetic understanding which had hitherto been denied him in
his home-life.

He had, of course, never again discussed with her his wife's incurable
self-absorption, as on the day of her arrival, when the painful scene
created by Mrs. Selwyn had practically forced him into some sort of
explanation, but Sara's quick grasp of the situation had infinitely
simplified matters, and by devoting a considerable amount of her own
time to the entertainment of the captious invalid, and thus keeping
her in a good humour, she contrived to save Selwyn many a bad half-
hour of recrimination and complaint.

Sara was essentially a good "comrade," as Patrick Lovell had
recognized in the old days at Barrow Court, and instinctively Selwyn
came to share with her the pin-prick worries that dog a man's
footsteps in this vale of woe, learning to laugh at them; and even his
apprehensions concerning Molly's ultimate development and welfare were
lessened by the knowledge that Sara was at hand.

Molly herself seemed to float through life like a big, beautiful moth,
sailing serenely along, and now and then blundering into things, but
never learning by experience the dangers of such blunders. One day, in
the course of her inconsequent path through life, she would probably
flutter too near the attractive blaze of some perilous fire, just as a
moth flies against the flame of a candle and singes its frail, soft
wings in the process.

It was of this that Sara was inwardly afraid, realizing, perhaps more
clearly than the girl's overworked and sometimes absent-minded father,
the risks attaching to her temperament.

Of late, Molly had manifested a certain moodiness and irritability
very unlike her usual facile sweetness of disposition, and Sara was
somewhat nonplussed to account for it. Finally, she approached the
matter by way of a direct inquiry.

"What's wrong, Molly?"

Molly was hunched up in the biggest and shabbiest armchair by the
fire, smoking innumerable cigarettes and flinging them away half-
finished. At Sara's question, she looked up with a shade of defiance
in her eyes.

"Why should anything be wrong?" she countered, obviously on the
defensive.

Molly sighed, smoked furiously for a moment, and then tossed her
cigarette into the fire.

"Well, yes," she admitted at last. "There is--something wrong." She
rose and stood looking across at Sara like a big, perplexed child.
"I--I owe some money."

Sara was conscious of a distinct shock.

"How much?" she asked sharply.

"It's--it's rather a lot--twenty pounds!"

"Twenty pounds!" This was certainly a large sum for Molly--whose
annual dress allowance totaled very little more--to be in debt. "What
on earth have you been up to? Buying a new trousseau? Where do you owe
it--Carr & Bishop's?"--mentioning the principal draper's shop in
Oldhampton.

"No. I--don't owe it to a shop at all. It's--it's a bridge debt!" The
confession came out rather hurriedly.

Sara's face grew grave.

"But, Molly, you little fool, you've no business to be playing bridge.
Where have you been playing?"

"Oh, we play sometimes at the studios--when the light's too bad to go
on painting, you know"--airily.

"You mean," said Sara, "the artists' club people play?"

"Yes."

Sara frowned. She knew that Molly was one of the youngest members of
this club of rather irresponsible and happy-go-lucky folk, and
privately considered that Selwyn had made a great mistake in ever
allowing her to join it. It embodied, as she had discovered by
inquiry, some of the most rapid elements of Oldhampton's society, and
was, moreover, open to receive as temporary members artists who come
from other parts of the country to paint in the neighbourhood. More
than one well-known name had figured in the temporary membership list,
and, in addition, the name of certain dilettanti to whom the freedom
from convention of the artistic life signified far more that art
itself.

"I don't understand," said Sara slowly, "how they let you go on
playing until you owed twenty pounds. Don't you square up at the end
of the afternoon's play?"

"Yes. But I'd--I'd been losing badly, and--and some one lent me the
money."

Molly flushed a bewitching rose-colour and appealed with big, pathetic
eyes. It was difficult to be righteously wroth with her, but Sara
steeled her heart.

"You'd no right to borrow," she said shortly.

'No. I know I hadn't. But, don't you see, I thought I should be sure
to win it all back? I couldn't ask Dad for it. Every penny he can
spare goes on something that mother can't possibly do without," added
the girl with unwonted bitterness.

The latter fact was incontrovertible, and Sara remained silent. In her
own mind she regarded Mrs. Selwyn as a species of vampire, sucking out
all that was good, and sweet, and wholesome from the lives of those
about her--even that of her own daughter. Did the woman realize, she
wondered, that instead of being the help all mothers were sent into
the world to be, she was nothing but a hindrance and a stumbling-
block?

"I don't know what to do, I simply don't." Molly's humble, dejected
tones broke through the current of Sara's thoughts. "You see, the
worst of it is"--she blushed even more bewitchingly than before--"that
I owe it to a man. It's detestable owing money to a man!"--with
suppressed irritation.

Two fine lines drew themselves between Sara's level brows. This was
worse than she had imagined.

"Who is it?" she asked, at last, quietly.

"Lester Kent."

"And who--or what--is Lester Kent?"

"He's--he's an artist--by choice. I mean," stumbled Molly, "that he's
quite well off--he only paints for pleasure. He often runs down from
town for a month or two at a time and takes out a temporary membership
for our club."

"And he has lent you this money?"

"Yes"--rather shamefacedly.

"Well, he must be paid back at once. At once, do you understand? I
will give you the twenty pounds--you're not to bother your father
about it."

"Oh, Sara! You are a blessed duck!"

In an instant Molly's cares had slipped from her shoulders, and she
beamed across at her deliverer with the most disarming gratitude.

"Wait a moment," continued Sara firmly. "You must never borrow from
Mr. Kent--or any one else--again."

"Oh, I won't! Indeed, I won't!" Molly was fervent in her assurances.
"I've been wretched over this. Although"--brightening--"Lester Kent
was really most awfully nice about it. He said it didn't matter one
bit."

"Did he indeed?" Sara spoke rather grimly. "And how old is this Lester
Kent?"

"How old? Oh"--vaguely--"thirty-five--forty, perhaps. I really don't
know. Somehow he's not the sort of person whose age one thinks about."

"Anyway, he's old enough to know better than to be lending you money
to play bridge with," commented Sara. "I wish you'd give up playing,
Molly."

"Oh, I couldn't!" coaxingly. "We play for very small stakes--as a
rule. But it is amusing, Sara. And, you know this place is as dull
as ditchwater unless one does something. But I won't get into debt
again--I really won't."

Molly had all the caressing charm of a nice kitten, and now that the
pressing matter of her indebtedness to Lester Kent was settled, she
relapsed into her usual tranquil, happy-go-lucky self. She rubbed her
cheek confidingly against Sara's.

"You are a pet angel, Sara, my own," she said. "I'm so glad you
adopted us. Now I can go to the Herricks' tea-party this afternoon
without having that twenty pounds nagging at the back of my mind all
the time. I suppose"--glancing at the clock--"it's time we put on our
glad rags. The Lavender Lady said she expected us at four."

Half-an-hour later, Molly reappeared, looking quite impossibly lovely
in a frock of the cheapest kind of material, "run up" by the local
dressmaker, and very evidently with no other thought "at the back of
her mind" than of the afternoon's entertainment.

The tea-party was a small one, commensurate with the size of the rooms
at Rose Cottage, and included only Sara and Molly, Mrs. Maynard, and,
to Sara's surprise, Garth Trent.

As she entered the room, he turned quietly from the window where he
had been standing looking out at the Herricks' charming garden.

The Lavender Lady's pretty, faded blue eyes beamed benevolently on
him. She was so very glad that "that poor, lonely fellow at Far End"
had at last been induced to desert the solitary fastnesses of Monk's
Cliff, but as she was simply terrified at the prospect of entertaining
him herself--and Audrey Maynard seemed already fully occupied,
chatting with Miles--she was only too thankful to turn him across to
Sara's competent hands.

"We've met before, Miss Lavinia," said Trent, and over her head his
hazel eyes met Sara's with a gamin amusement dancing in them. "Miss
Tennant kindly called on me at Far End."

"Oh, I didn't know." Little Miss Lavinia gazed in a puzzled fashion
from one to the other of her guests. "Sara, my dear, you never told me
that you and Dr. Selwyn had called on Mr. Trent."

Sara laughed outright.

"Dear Lavender Lady--we didn't. Neither of us would have dared to
insult Mr. Trent by doing anything so conventional." The black eyes
flashed back defiance at the hazel ones. "I got caught in a storm on
the Monk's Cliff, and Mr. Trent--much against his will, I'm certain"--
maliciously--"offered me shelter."

"Now that was kind of him. I'm sure Sara must have been most grateful
to you." And the kind old face smiled up into Trent's dark, bitter one
so simply and sincerely that it seemed as though, for the moment, some
of the bitterness melted away. Not even so confirmed a misanthrope as
the hermit of Far End could have entirely resisted the Lavender Lady,
with her serene aroma of an old-world courtesy and grace long since
departed from these hurrying twentieth-century days.

She moved away to the tea-table, leaving Trent and Sara standing
together in the bay of the window.

"So you are overcoming your distaste for visiting," said Sara a little
nervously. "I didn't expect to meet you here."

His glance held hers.

"You wished it," he answered gravely.

A sudden colour flamed up into the warm pallor of her skin.

"Are you suggesting I invited you to meet me here?" she responded,
willfully misinterpreting him. She shook her read regretfully. "You
must have misunderstood me. I should never have imposed such a strain
on your politeness."

His eyes glinted.

"Do you know," he said quietly, "that I should very much like to shake
you?"

"I'm glad," she answered heartily. "It's a devastating feeling! You
made me feel just the same the day I travelled with you. So now we're
quits."

"Won't you--please--try to forget that day in the train?" he said
quickly. "I behaved like a bore. I'm afraid I've no real excuse to
offer, except that I'd been reminded of something that happened long
ago--and I wanted to be alone."

"To enjoy the memory in solitude?" hazarded Sara flippantly. She was
still nervous and talking rather at random, scarcely heeding what she
said.

A look of bitter irony crossed his face.

"Hardly that," he said shortly, and Sara knew that somehow she had
again inadvertently laid her hand upon an old hurt. She spoke with a
sudden change of voice.

"Then, as the train doesn't hold pleasant memories for either of us,
let's forget it," she suggested gently.

"Do you know what that implies?" he asked. "It implies that you are
willing to be friends. Do you mean that?"--incisively.

She nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak.

"Thank you," he said curtly, and then Audrey Maynard's gay voice broke
across the tension of the moment.

"Mr. Trent, I simply cannot allow Sara to monopolize you any longer.
Now that we have succeeded in dragging the hermit out of his shell,
we all want a share of his society, please."

Trent turned instantly, and Sara slipped across the room and took the
place Audrey had vacated by Miles's couch. He greeted her coming with
a smile, but there were shadows of fatigue beneath his eyes, and his
lips were rather white and drawn-looking.

"This is a lazy way to receive visitors, isn't it?" he said
apologetically. "But my game leg's given out to-day, so you must
forgive me."

Sara's glance swept his face with quick sympathy.

"You oughtn't to be at the 'party' at all," she said. "You look far
too tired to be bothered with a parcel of chattering women."

He smiled.

"Do you know," he whispered humorously, "that, although you're quite
the four nicest women I know, the shameful truth is that I'm really
here on behalf of the one man! I met him yesterday in the town and
booked him for this afternoon, and, having at last dislodged him from
his lone pinnacle, I hadn't the heart to leave him unsupported."

"I suppose"--the toe of Sara's narrow foot was busily tracing a
pattern on the carpet--"I suppose you don't know why he shuts himself
up like that at Far End?"

"No, I don't," he answered. "But I'd wager it's for some better reason
than people give him credit for. Or it may be merely a preference for
his own society. Anyway, it is no business of ours." Then, swiftly
softening the suggestion of reproof contained in his last sentence, he
added: "Don't encourage me to gossip, Sara. When a man's tied by the
leg, as I am, it's all he can do to curb a tendency towards tattling
village scandal like some garrulous old woman."

It was evident that the presence of visitors was inflicting a
considerable strain on Herrick's endurance, and, as though by common
consent, the little party broke up shortly after tea.

Molly expressed her intention of accompanying Mrs. Maynard back to
Greenacres--the beautiful house which the latter had had built to her
own design, overlooking the bay--in order to inspect the pretty
widow's recent purchase of a new motor-car.

Trent turned to Sara with a smile.

"Then it devolves on me to see you safely home, Miss Tennant, may I?"

She nodded permission, and they set off through the high-hedged lane,
Sara hurrying along at top speed.

For a few minutes Trent strode beside her in silence. Then:

"Are you catching a train?" he inquired mildly. "Or is it only that
you want to be rid of my company in the shortest possible time?"

She coloured, moderating her pace with an effort. Once again the odd
nervousness engendered by his presence had descended on her. It was as
though something in the man's dominating personality strung all her
nerves to a high tension of consciousness, and she felt herself
overwhelmingly sensible of his proximity.

He smiled down at her.

"Then--if you're not in any hurry to get home--will you let me take
you round by Crabtree Moor? It's part of a small farm of mine, and I
want a word with my tenant."

Sara acquiesced, and, Trent, having speedily transacted the little
matter of business with his tenant, they made their way across a
stretch of wild moorland which intersected the cultivated fields lying
on either hand.

In the dusk of the evening, with the wan light of the early moon
deepening the shadows and transforming the clumps of furze into
strange, unrecognizable shapes of darkness, it was an eerie enough
place. Sara shivered a little, instinctively moving closer to her
companion. And then, as they rounded a furze-crowned hummock, out of
the hazy twilight, loping along on swift, padding feet, emerged the
figure of a man.

With a muttered curse he swerved aside, but Trent's arm shot out, and,
catching him by the shoulder, he swung him round so that he faced
them.

"I can, but I'm not going to," said Trent coolly. "At least, not till
you've explained your presence here. This is private property. What
are you doing on it?"

"I'm doing no harm," growled the man sullenly.

"No?" Trent passed his free hand swiftly down the fellow's body,
feeling the bulge of his coat. "Then what's the meaning of those
rabbits sticking out under your coat? Now, look here, my man, I know
you. You're Jim Brady, and it's not the first, nor the second, time
I've caught you poaching on my land. But it's the last. Understand
that? This time the Bench shall deal with you."

Ne'er-do-well as he was, the mere fact that he came from Fallowdene
warmed her heart towards him.

"Yes, miss, that's so," he answered readily. "And you're the young
lady what used to live at Barrow Court."

"Do you know this man?" Trent asked her.

" 'Bout as well as you do, sir," volunteered Brady with an impudent
grin. "Catched me poachin' one morning. Fired me gun at 'er, too, I
did, to frighten 'er," he continued reminiscently. "And she never
blinked. You're a good-plucked 'un, miss,"--with frank admiration.

Sara looked at the man doubtfully.

"I didn't know you lived here," she said.

"It's my native village, miss, Monks'aven is. But I didn't think 'twas
too 'healthy for me down here, back along"--grinning--"so I shifted to
Fallowdene, where me grandmother lives. I came back here to marry
Bessie Windrake' she've stuck to me like a straight 'un. But I didn't
mean to get collared poachin' again. Me and Bess was goin' to live
respectable. 'Twas her bein' ill and me out of work w'at did it."

"You won't mend matters by impudence, Brady," he said sharply. "Get
along now"--releasing his hold of the man's arm--"but you'll hear of
this again."

Brady shot away into the darkness like an arrow, probably chortling to
himself that his captor had omitted to relieve him of the brace of
rabbits he had poached; and Sara, turning again to Trent, renewed her
plea for clemency.

But Trent remained adamant.

"Why shouldn't he stand his punishment like any other man?" he said.

"Well, if it's true that his wife is ill, and that he has been out of
work--"

"Are you offering those facts as an excuse for dishonesty?" asked
Trent drily.

Sara smiled.

"Yes, I believe I am," she acknowledged.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Like nine-tenths of your sex, you are fiercely Tory in theory and a
rank socialist in practice," he grumbled.

"Well, I'm not sure that that isn't a very good working basis to go
on," she retorted.

As they stood in the porch at Sunnyside, she made yet one more effort
to smooth matters over for the evil-doer, but Trent's face still
showed unrelenting in the light that streamed out through the open
doorway.

"Ask me something else," he said. "I would do anything to please you,
Sara, except"--with a sudden tense decision--"except interfere with
the course of justice. Let every man pay the penalty for his own sin."

"That's a hard creed," objected Sara.

"Hard?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps it is. But"--grimly--"it's
the only creed I believe in. Good-night"--he held out his hand
abruptly. "I'm sorry I can't do as you ask about Jim Brady."

Before Sara could reply, he was striding away down the path, and a
minute later the darkness had hidden him from view.

Sara's conviction that Garth Trent would not be easily turned from any
decision that he might take had been confirmed very emphatically over
the matter of Black Brady.

Notwithstanding the fact that the man's story of his wife's illness
proved to be perfectly genuine, Trent persisted that he must take his
punishment, and all that Sara could do by way of mitigation was to
promise Brady that she would pay the amount of any fine which might be
imposed.

Brady, however, was not optimistic.

"There'll be no opshun of a fine, miss," he told her. "I've a-been up
before the gen'lemen too many times"--grinning. "But if so be you'd
give an eye to Bessie here, whiles I'm in quod, I'd take it very kind
of you."

His forecast summed up the situation with lamentable accuracy. No
option of a fine was given, and during the brief space that the prison
doors closed upon him, Sara saw to the welfare of his invalid wife,
thereby winning the undying devotion of Black Brady's curiously
composite soul.

When he again found himself at liberty, she induced the frankly
unwilling proprietor of the Cliff Hotel--the only hotel of any
pretension to which Monkshaven could lay claim--to take him into his
employment as an odd-job man. How she accomplished this feat it is
impossible to say, but the fact remains that she did accomplish it,
and perhaps Jane Crab delved to the root of the matter in the terse
comment which the circumstances elicited from her: "Miss Tennant has a
way with her that 'ud make they stone sphinxes gallop round the desert
if so be she'd a mind they should."

Apparently, however, the sphinx of Far End was compounded of even more
adamantine substance than his feminine prototype, for he exhibited a
mulish aversion to budging an inch--much less galloping--in the
direction Sara had indicated as desirable.

The two quarreled vehemently over the matter, and a glacial atmosphere
of hostility prevailed between them during the period of Black Brady's
incarceration.

Garth, undeniably the victor, was the first to open peace
negotiations, and a few days subsequent to Brady's release from
prison, he waylaid Sara in the town.

She was preoccupied with numerous small, unnecessary commissions to be
executed for Mrs. Selwyn at half-a-dozen different shops, and she
would have passed him by with a frosty little bow had he not halted in
front of her and deliberately held out his hand.

"Good-morning!" he said, blithely disregarding the coolness of his
reception. "Am I still in disgrace? Brady's been restored to the bosom
of his family for at least five days now, you know."

Overhead, the sun was shining gloriously in an azure sky flecked with
little bunchy white clouds like floating pieces of cotton-wool, while
an April breeze, fragrant of budding leaf and blossom, rollicked up
the street. It seemed almost as though the frolicsome atmosphere of
spring had permeated even the shell of the hermit and got into his
system, for there was something incorrigibly boyish and youthful about
him this morning. His cheerful smile was infectious.

"Can't I be restored, too?" he asked

"Restored to what?" asked Sara, trying to resist the contagion of his
good humour.

"Oh, well"--a faint shadow dimmed the sparkle in his eyes--"to the
same old place I held before our squabble over Brady--just friends,
Sara."

For a moment she hesitated. He had pitted his will against hers and
won, hands down, and she felt distinctly resentful. But she knew that
in a strange, unforeseen way their quarrel had hurt her inexplicably.
She had hated meeting the cool, aloof expression of his eyes, and now,
urged by some emotion of which she was, as yet, only dimly conscious,
she capitulated.

"That's good," he said contentedly. "And you might just as well give
in now as later," he added, smiling.

"All the same," she protested, "you're a bully."

"I know I am--I glory in it! But now, just to show that you really do
mean to be friends again, will you let me row you across to Devil's
Hood Island this afternoon? You told me once that you wanted to go
there."

Sara considered the proposition for a moment, then nodded consent.

"Yes, I'll come," she said, "I should like to."

Devil's Hood Island was a chip off the mainland which had managed to
keep its head above water when the gradually encroaching sea had
stolen yet another mile from the coast. Sandy dunes, patched here and
there with clumps of coarse, straggling rushes, sloped upward from the
rock-strewn shore to a big crag that crowned its further side--a
curious natural formation which had given the island its name.

It was shaped like a great overhanging hood, out of which, crudely
suggested by the configuration of the rock, peered a diabolical face,
weather-worn to the smoothness of polished marble.

April was still doing her best to please, with blue skies and soft
fragrant airs, when Garth gave a final push-off to the Betsy Anne,
and bent to his oars as she skimmed out over the top of the waves with
her nose towards Devil's Hood Island.

Sara, comfortably ensconced amid a nest of cushions in the stern of
the boat, pointed to a square-shaped basket of quite considerable
dimensions, tucked away beneath one of the seats.

"What's that?" she asked curiously.

Trent's eyes followed the direction of her glance.

"That? Oh, that's our tea. You didn't imagine I was going to starve
you, did you? I think we shall find that Mrs. Judson has provided all
we want."

Sara laughed across at him.

"What a thoughtful man you are!" she said gaily. "Fancy a hermit
remembering a woman's crucial need of tea."

"Don't credit me with too much self-effacement!" he grinned. "I
enjoyed the last occasion when you were my guest, so I'm repeating the
prescription."

"Still, even deducting for the selfish motive, you're progressing,"
she answered. "I see you developing into quite an ornament to society
in course of time."

"There is no question of such a catastrophe occurring. I've told you
that society--as such--and I have finished with each other."

His face clouded over, and for a while he sculled in silence, driving
the Betsy Anne through the blue water with strong, steady strokes.

Sara was vividly conscious of the suggestion of supple strength
conveyed by the rippling play of muscle beneath the white skin of his
arms, bared to the elbow, and by the pliant swing of his body to each
sure, rhythmical stroke.

She recollected that one of her earliest impressions concerning him
had been of the sheer force of the man--the lithe, flexible strength
like that of tempered steel--and she wondered whether this were
entirely due to his magnificent physique or owed its impulse, in part,
to some mental quality in him. Her eyes travelled reflectively to the
lean, square-jawed face, with its sensitive, bitter-looking mouth and
its fine modeling of brow and temple, as though seeking there the
answer to her questionings, and with a sudden, intuitive instinct of
reliance, she felt that behind all his cynicism and surface hardness,
there lay a quiet, sure strength of soul that would not fail whoever
trusted it.

Yet he always spoke as though in some way his life had been a failure
--as though he had met, and been defeated, by a shrewd blow of fate.

Sara found it difficult to associate the words failure and defeat with
her knowledge of his dominating personality and force of will, and the
natural curiosity which had been aroused in her mind by his strange
mode of life, with its deliberate isolation, and by the aroma of
mystery which seemed to cling about him, deepened.

Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown, as she inwardly sought for
some explanation of the many inconsistencies she had encountered even
in the short time that she had known him.

His abrupt alterations from reticence to unreserved; his avowed
dislike of women and the contradictory enjoyment which he seemed to
find in her society; his love of music and of beautiful surroundings--
alike indicative of a cultivated appreciation and experience of the
good things of this world--and the solitary, hermit-like existence
which he yet chose to lead--all these incongruities of temperament and
habit wove themselves into an enigma which she found impossible to
solve.

"Here we are!"

Garth's voice recalled her abruptly from her musings to find that the
Betsy Anne was swaying gently alongside a little wooden landing-
stage.

"But how civilized!" she exclaimed. "One does not expect to find a
jetty on a desert-island."

Trent laughed grimly.

"Devil's Hood is far from being a desert island in the summer, when
the tourists come this way. They swarm over it."

Whilst he was speaking, he had made fast the painter, and he now
stepped out on to the landing-stage. Sara prepared to follow him. For
a moment she stood poised with one foot on the gunwale of the boat,
then, as an incoming wave drove the little skiff suddenly against the
wooden supports of the jetty, she staggered, lost her balance, and
toppled helplessly backward.

But even as she fell, Garth's arms closed round her like steel bars,
and she felt herself lifted clean up from the rocking boat on to the
landing-stage. For an instant she knew that she rested a dead weight
against his breast; then he placed her very gently on her feet.

"All right?" he queried, steadying her with his hand beneath her arm.
"That was a near shave."

"Quite, thanks," she said a little breathlessly, adding: "You must be
very strong."

She moved her arm as though trying to free it from his clasp, and he
released it instantly. But his face was rather white as he knelt down
to lift out the tea-basket, and he, too, was breathing quickly.

Somewhat silently they made their way up the sandy slope that
stretched ahead of them, and presently, as they mounted the last rise,
the malignant, distorted face beneath the Devil's Hood leaped into
view, granite-grey and menacing against the young blue of the April
sky.

"What a perfectly horrible head!" exclaimed Sara, gazing at it aghast.
"It's like a nightmare of some kind."

"Yes, it's not pretty," admitted Garth. "The mouth has a sort of
malevolent leer, hasn't it?"

"It has, indeed. One can hardly believe that it is just a natural
formation."

"It's always a hotly debated point whether the devil and his hood are
purely the work of nature or not. My own impression is that to a
certain extent they are, but that someone--centuries ago--being struck
by the resemblance of the rock to a human face, added a few touches to
complete the picture."

"Well, whoever did it must have had a bizarre imagination to
perpetuate such a thing."

"The handiwork--if handiwork it is--is attributed to Friar Anselmo--
the Spanish monk who broke his vows and escaped to Monkshaven, you
know."

"You don't meant to say no one has enlightened you as to the gentleman
whose exploit gave the town its name of Monkshaven?"

"No. I'm afraid my education as far as local history is concerned has
been shamefully neglected. Do make good the deficiencies"--smiling.

Garth laughed a little.

"Very well, I will. I always have a kind of fellow-feeling for Friar
Anselmo. But I propose we investigate the tea-basket first."

They established themselves beneath the shelter of a big boulder,
Garth first spreading a rug which he had brought from the boat for
Sara to sit on. Then he unstrapped the tea-basket, and it became
evident either that Mrs. Judson had a genius for assembling together
the most fascinating little cakes and savoury sandwiches, accompanied
by fragrant tea, hot from a thermos flask, or else that she had acted
under instructions from some one to whom the cult of afternoon tea as
sublimated by Rumpelmayer was not an unknown quantity. Sara, sipping
her tea luxuriously, decided in favour of the latter explanation.

"For a confirmed misogynist," she observed later on, when, the feast
over, he was repacking the basket, "you have a very complete
understanding of a woman's weakness for tea."

"It's a case of cause and effect. A misogynist"--caustically--"is the
product of a very complete understanding of most feminine weaknesses."

Sara's slender figure tautened a little.

"Do you think," she said, speaking a little indignantly, "that it is
quite nice of you to invite me out to a picnic and then to launch
remarks of that description at my head?"

"No, I don't," he acknowledged bluntly. "It's making you pay some one
else's bill." His lean brown hand closed suddenly over hers. "Forgive
me, Sara!"

The abrupt intensity of his manner was out of all proportion to the
merely surface friction of the moment; and Sara, sensing something
deeper and of more significance behind it, hurriedly switched the
conversation into a less personal channel.

"Very well," she said lightly, disengaging her hand. "I'll forgive
you, and you shall tell me about Friar Anselmo." She lifted her eyes
to the leering, sinister face that protruded from the Devil's Hood.
"As, presumably, from his choice of a profession, he, too, had no love
for women, you ought to enjoy telling his story," she added
maliciously.

Garth's eyes twinkled.

"As a matter of fact, it was love o' women that was Anselmo's
undoing," he said. "In spite of his vows, he fell in love--with a very
beautiful Spanish lady, and to make matters worse, if that were
possible, the lady was possessed of a typically jealous Spanish
husband, who, on discovering how the land lay, killed his wife, and
would have killed Anselmo as well, but that he escaped to England. The
vessel on which he sailed was wrecked at the foot of what has been
called, ever since, the Monk's Cliff; but Anselmo himself succeeded in
swimming ashore, and spent the remainder of his life at Monkshaven,
doing penance for the mistakes of his earlier days."

"He chose a charming place to repent in," said Sara, her eyes
wandering to the distant bay, where the quaint little town straggled
picturesquely up the hill that sloped away from the coast.

"Yes," responded Garth slowly, "it's not a bad place--to repent in.
. . . It would be a better place still--to love and be happy in."

There was a brooding melancholy in his tones, and Sara, hearing it,
spoke very gently.

"I hope you will find it--like that," she said.

"I?" He laughed hardly. "No! Those gifts of the gods are not for such
as I. The husks are my portion. If it were not so"--his voice deepened
to a sudden urgent note that moved her strangely--"if it were not
so--"

As though in spite of himself, his arms moved gropingly towards her.
Then, with a muttered exclamation, he turned away and sprang hastily
to his feet.

"Let us go back," he said abruptly, and Sara, shaken by his vehemence,
rose obediently, and they began to retrace their steps.

It had grown much colder. The sun hung low in the horizon, and the
deceptive warmth of mid-afternoon had given place to the chill
dampness in the atmosphere. Half unconsciously, feeling that the time
must have slipped away more rapidly than she had suspected, Sara
quickened her steps, Garth striding silently at her side. Presently
the little wooden jetty came into view once more. It bore a curiously
bare, deserted aspect, the waves riding and falling sluggishly on
either side of its black, tarred planking, Sara stared at it
incredulously, then an exclamation of sheer dismay burst from her
lips.

"The boat! Look! It's gone!"

"Gone?" Garth's eyes sought the landing-stage, then swept the vista
of grey-water ahead of them.

"Damn!" he ejaculated forcibly. "She's got adrift!"

A brown speck, bobbing maddeningly up and down in the distance and
momentarily drifting further and further out to sea on the ebbing
tide, was all that could be seen of the Betsy Anne.

An involuntary chuckle broke from Sara.

"Marooned!" she exclaimed. "How amusing!"

"Amusing?" Trent looked at her with a concerned expression. "It might
be, if it were eleven o'clock in the morning. But it's the wrong end
of the day. It will be dark before long." He paused, then asked
swiftly: "Does any one at Sunnyside know where you are this
afternoon?"

"No. The doctor and Molly were both out to lunch--and you know we only
planned this trip this morning. I haven't seen them since. Why do you
ask?"

"Because, if they know, they'd send over in search of us if we didn't
turn up in the course of the next hour or so. But if they don't know
where you are, we stand an excellent chance of spending the night
here."

The gravity of what had first struck her as merely an amusing
contretemps suddenly presented itself to Sara.

"Oh!--!" She drew her breath in sharply. "What--what on earth shall we
do?"

"Do?" Garth spoke with grim force. "Why, you must be got off the
island somehow. If not, you're fair game for every venomous tongue in
the town."

"Would any one hear us from the shore if we shouted?" she suggested.

He shook his head.

"No. The sound would carry in the opposite direction to-day."

"Then what can we do?"

By this time the manifest anxiety in Trent's face was reflected in her
own. The possibility that they might be compelled to spend the night
on Devil's Hood Island was not one that could be contemplated with
equanimity, for Sara had no illusions whatever as to the
charitableness of the view the world at large would take of such an
episode--however accidental its occurrence. Unfortunately, essential
innocence is frequently but a poor tool wherewith to scotch a scandal.

"There is only one thing to be done," said Garth at last, after
fruitlessly scanning the waters for any stray fishing-boat that might
be passing. "I must swim across, and then row back and take you off."

"Swim across?" Sara regarded the distance between the island and the
shore with consternation. "You couldn't possibly do it. It's too far."

"Just under a mile."

"But you would have the tide against you," she urged. The current off
the coast ran with dangerous rapidity between the mainland and the
island, and more than one strong swimmer, as Sara knew, had lost his
life struggling against it.

She looked across to the further shore again, and all at once it
seemed impossible to let Garth make the attempt.

"No! no! You can't go!" she exclaimed.

"You wouldn't be nervous at being alone here?" he asked doubtfully.

She stamped her foot.

"No! Of course not! But--oh! Don't you see? It's madness to think of
swimming across with the tide against you! You could never do it. You
might get cramp--Oh! Anything might happen! You shan't go!"

She caught his arm impetuously, her eyes dilating with the sudden
terror that had laid hold of her. But he was obdurate.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a faint haze thickening the
atmosphere. "Do you see the mist coming up? Very soon it will be all
over us, like a blanket, and there'd be no possibility of swimming
across at all. I must go at once."

"But that only adds to the danger," she argued desperately. "The fog
may come down sooner than you expect, and then you'd lose your
bearings altogether."

"I must risk that," he answered grimly. "Don't you realize that it's
impossible--impossible for us to remain here?"

"No, I don't," she returned stubbornly. "It isn't worth such a
frightful risk. Some one is sure to look for us eventually."

"It's not!"--passionately. "Do you suppose I care two straws for the
gossip of a parcel of spiteful old women?"

"Not at the moment, perhaps, but later you wouldn't be able to help
it. What people think of you, what they say of you, can make all the
difference between heaven and hell." He spoke heavily, as though his
words were weighted with some deadening memory. "And do you think I
could bear to feel that I--I had given people a handle for gossiping
about you? I'd cut their tongues out first!" he added savagely.

He stripped off his coat, and, sitting down on a rock, began removing
his boots, while Sara stood watching him in silence with big, sombre
eyes.

Presently he stood up, bareheaded and barefooted. Below the lean,
tanned face the column of his throat showed white as a woman's, while
the thin silk of his vest revealed the powerful line of shoulder at
its base. His keen eyes were gazing steadily across to the opposite
shore, as though measuring the distance he must traverse, and as a
chance shaft from the westering sun rested upon him, investing him
momentarily in its radiance, there seemed something rather splendid
about him--something very sure and steadfast and utterly without fear.

He wheeled round, and at the sight of her white, strained face a
sudden light leapt into his eyes--the light of a great incredulity
with, back of it, an unutterable hope and longing. In two strides he
was at her side, his hands gripping her shoulders.

"Why, Sara?--God in heaven!"--the words came hurrying from him, hoarse
and uneven--"I believe you care!"

For an instant he hesitated, seeming to hold himself in check, then he
caught her in his arms, kissing her fiercely on eyes and lips and
throat.

"My dear! . . . Oh! My dear! . . ."

She could hear the broken words stammered through his hurried
breathing as she lay unresistingly in his arms; then she felt him put
her from him, gently, decisively, and she stood alone, swaying
slightly. A long shuddering sigh ran through her body.

"Garth!"

She never knew whether the word really passed her lips or whether it
was only the cry of her inmost being, so importunate, so urgent that
it seemed to take on actual sound.

There came no answer. He was gone, and through the light veil of the
encroaching mists she could see him shearing his way through the
leaden-coloured sea.

She remained motionless, her eyes straining after him. He was swimming
easily, with a powerful overhand stroke that carried him swiftly away
from the shore. A little sigh of relaxed tension fluttered between her
lips. At least, he was a magnificent swimmer--he had that much in his
favour.

Then her glance spanned the channel to the further shore, and it
seemed as though an interminable waste of water stretched between. And
all the time, at every stroke, that mad, racing current was pulling
against him, fighting for possession of the strong, sinewy body
battling against it.

She beat her hands together in an agony of fear. Why had she let him
go? What did it matter if people talked--what was a tarnished
reputation to set against a man's life? Oh! She had been mad to let
him go!

The fog grew denser. Strain as she might, she could no longer see the
dark head above the water, the rise and fall of his arm like a white
flail in the murky light, and she realized that should exhaustion
overtake him, or the swift-running current beat him, drawing him under
--she would not even know?

A sickening sense of bitter impotence assailed her. There was nothing
she could do but wait--wait helplessly until either his return, or
endless hours of solitude, told her whether he had won or lost the
fight against that grey, hungry waste of water. A strangled sob burst
from her throat.

"Oh, God! Let him come back to me! Let him come back!"

The creak of straining rowlocks and the even plash of dripping oars,
muffled by the numbing curtain of the fog, broke through the silence.
Then followed the gentle thudding noise of a boat as it bumped against
the jetty and a voice--Garth's voice--calling.

She rose from the ground where she had flung herself and came to him,
peering at him with eyes that looked like two dark stains in the
whiteness of her face.

"I though you were dead," she said dully. "Drowned. I mean--oh, of
course, it's the same thing, isn't it?" And she laughed, the shrill,
choking laughter of overwrought nerves.

Garth observed her narrowly.

"No, I've very much alive, thanks," he said, speaking in deliberately
cheerful and commonplace accents. "But you look half frozen. Why on
earth didn't you put the rug round you? Get into the boat and let me
tuck you up."

She obeyed passively, and in a few minutes they were slipping over the
water as rapidly as the mist permitted.

Sara was very silent throughout the return journey. For hours, for an
eternity it seemed, she had been in the grip of a consuming terror,
culminating at last in the conviction that Garth had failed to make
the further shore. And now, with the knowledge of his safety, the
reaction from the tension of acute anxiety left her utterly flaccid
and exhausted, incapable of anything more than a half-stunned
acceptance of the miracle.

When at last the Selwyns' house was reached, it was with a manifest
effort that she roused herself sufficiently to answer Garth's quiet
apology for the misadventure of the afternoon.

"If it was your fault that we got stranded on the island," she said,
summoning up rather a wan smile, "it is, at all events, thanks to you
that I shall be sleeping under a respectable roof, instead of
scandalizing half the neighbourhood!" She paused, then went on
uncertainly: " 'Thank you' seems ludicrously inadequate for all you've
done--"

"I've done nothing," he interrupted brusquely.

"You risked your life--"

An impatient exclamation broke from him.

"And if I did? I risked something of no value, I assure you--to
myself, or any one else."

Then he added practically--

"Get Jane Crab to give you some hot soup and go to bed. You look
absolutely done."

Sara nodded, smiling more naturally.

"I will," she said. "Good-night, then." She held out her hand a little
nervously.

He took it, holding it closely in his, and looking down at her with
the strange expression of a man who strives to impress upon his mind
the picture of a face he may not see again, so that in a lonely future
he shall find comfort in remembering.

"Good-bye!" he said, at last, very gravely. Then a queer little smile,
half-bitter, half-tender, curving his lips, he added: "I shall always
have this one day for which to thank whatever gods there be."

Sara lay long awake that night. Under Jane Crab's bluff and kindly
ministrations, her feeling of utter bodily exhaustion had given place
to an exquisite sense of mental and physical well-being, and, freed
from the shackles of material discomfort, her thoughts flew backward
over the events of the day.

All was well--gloriously, blessedly well! There could be no
misunderstanding that brief, passionate moment when Garth had held her
in his arms; and the blinding anguish of those hours which had
followed, when she had not known whether he were alive or dead, had
shown her her own heart.

Love had come to her--the love which Patrick Lovell had called the one
altogether good and perfect gift--and with it came a tremulous unrest,
a shy sweetness of desire that crept through all her veins like the
burning of a swift flame.

She felt no fear or shame of love. Sara would never be afraid of life
and its demands, and it seemed to her a matter of little moment that
Garth had made no conventional avowal of his love. She did not, on
that account, pretend, even to herself, as many women would have done,
that her own heart was untouched, but recognized and accepted the fact
that love had come to her with absolute simplicity

Nor did she doubt or question Garth's feeling for her. She knew, in
every fibre of her being, that he loved her, and she was ready to wait
quite patiently and happily the few hours that must elapse before he
could come to her and tell her so.

Yet she longed, with a woman's natural longing, to hear him say in
actual words all that his whole attitude towards her had implied,
craved for the moment when the beloved voice should ask for that
surrender which in spirit she had already made.

She rose early, with a ridiculous feeling that it would bring the time
a little nearer, and Jane Crab stared in amazement when she appeared
downstairs while yet the preparations for breakfast were hardly in
progress.

"You're no worse for your outing, then, Miss Tennant," she observed,
adding shrewdly: "I'd as lief think you were the better for it."

Sara laughed, flushing a little. Somehow she did not mind the humorous
suspicion of the truth that twinkled in Jane's small, boot-button
eyes, but she sincerely hoped that the rest of the household would not
prove equally discerning.

She need have had no fears on that score. Dr. Selwyn had barely time
to swallow a cup of coffee and a slice of toast before rushing off in
response to an urgent summons from a patient, whilst Molly seemed
entirely preoccupied with the contents of a letter, in an unmistakably
masculine handwriting, which had come for her by the morning's post.
As for Mrs. Selwyn, she was always too much engrossed in analyzing the
symptoms of some fresh ailment she believed she had acquired to be
sensible of the emotional atmosphere of those around her. Her own
sensations--whether she were too hot, or not quite hot enough, whether
her new tabloids were suiting her or whether she had not slept as well
as usual--occupied her entire horizon.

This morning she was distressed because the hairpins Sara had
purchased for her the previous day differed slightly in shape from
those she was in the habit of using.

Sara explained that they were the only ones obtainable.

"At Bloxham's, you mean, dear. Oh, well, of course, you couldn't get
any others, then. Perhaps if you had tried another shop--" Mrs. Selwyn
paused, to let this suggestion sink in, then added brightly: "But,
naturally, I couldn't expect you to spend your whole morning going
from shop to shop looking for my particular kind of hairpin, could I?"

Sara, who had expended a solid hour over that very occupation, was
perfectly conscious of the reproach implied. She ignored it, however.
Like every one else in close contact with Mrs. Selwyn, she had learned
to accept the fact that the poor lady seriously believed that her
whole life was spent in bearing with admirable patience the total
absence of consideration accorded her.

When she descended from Mrs. Selwyn's room Sara was amazed to find
that the hands of the clock only indicated half-past ten. Surely no
morning had ever dragged itself away so slowly!

At two o'clock she and Molly were both due to lunch with Mrs. Maynard
at Greenacres, and she was radiantly aware that Garth Trent would be
included among the guests. Between them, Audrey, and the Herricks, and
Sara had succeeded in enticing the hermit within the charmed circle of
their friendship, and he could now be depended upon to join their
little gatherings--"provided," as he had bluntly told Audrey, "that
you can put up with my manners and morals."

Mrs. Maynard had only laughed.

"I'm not in the least likely to find fault with your manners," she
said cheerfully. "They're really quite normal, and as for your morals,
they are your own affair, my dear man. Anyway, there is at least one
bond between us--Monkshaven heartily disapproves of both of us."

Greenacres was a delightful place, built rather on the lines of a
French country house, with the sitting-rooms leading one into the
other and each opening in its turn on to a broad wooden verandah. The
latter ran round three sides of the house, and in summer the delicate
pink of Dorothy Perkins fought for supremacy with the deeper red of
the Crimson Rambler, converting it into a literal bower of roses.

Audrey was on the steps to greet the two girls when they arrived,
looking, as usual, as though she had just quitted the hands of an
expert French maid. It was in a great measure to the ultra-perfection
of her toilette that she owed the critical attitude accorded her by
the feminine half of Monkshaven. To the provincial mind, the fact that
she dyed her hair, ordered her frocks from Paris, and kept a French
chef to cook her food, were all so many indications of an altogether
worldly and abandoned character--and of a wealth that was secretly to
be envied--and the more venomous among Audrey's detractors lived in
the perennial hope of some day unveiling the scandal which they were
convinced lay hidden in her past.

Audrey was perfectly aware of the gossip of which she was the subject
--and completely indifferent to it.

"It amuses them," she would say blithely, "and it doesn't hurt me in
the least. If Mr. Trent and I both left the neighbourhood, Monkshaven
would be at a loss for a topic of conversation--unless they decided,
as they probably would, that we had eloped together!"

She herself was quite above the petty meanness of envying another
woman's looks or clothes, and she beamed frank admiration over Molly's
appearance as she led the way into the house.

"Molly, you're too beautiful to be true," she declared, pausing in the
hall to inspect the girl's young loveliness in its setting of shady
hat and embroidered muslin frock. Big golden poppies on the hat, and a
girdle at her waist of the same tawny hue, emphasized the rare colour
of her eyes--in shadow, brown like an autumn leaf, gold like amber
when the sunlight lay in them--and the whole effect was deliciously
arresting.

Molly blushed--not the dull, unbecoming red most women achieve, but a
delicate pink like the inside of a shell that made her look even more
irresistibly distracting than before.

"No," she admitted reluctantly, "I sent for this from town."

Sara glanced at her with quick surprise. Entirely absorbed in her own
thoughts, she had failed to observe the expensive charm of Molly's
toilette and now regarded it attentively. Where had she obtained the
money to pay for it? Only a very little while ago she had been in
debt, and now here she was launching out into expenditure which common
sense would suggest must be quite beyond her means.

Sara frowned a little, but, recognizing the impossibility of probing
into the matter at the moment, she dismissed it from her mind,
resolving to elucidate the mystery later on.

Meanwhile, it was impossible to do other than acknowledge the results
obtained. Molly looked more like a stately young empress than an
impecunious doctor's daughter as she floated into the room, to be
embraced and complimented by the Lavender Lady and to receive a
generous meed of admiration, seasoned with a little gentle banter,
from Miles Herrick.

Sara experienced a sensation of relief on discovering Miss Lavinia and
Herrick to be the only occupants of the room. Garth Trent had not yet
come. Despite her longing to see him again, she was conscious of a
certain diffidence, a reluctance at meeting him in the presence of
others, and she wished fervently that their first meeting after the
events of the previous day could have taken place anywhere rather than
at this gay little lunch party of Audrey's.

As it fell out, however, she chanced to be entirely alone in the room
when Trent was at length ushered in by a trim maidservant, the rest of
the party having gradually drifted out on to the verandah, while she
had lingered behind, glad of a moment's solitude in which to try and
steady herself.

She had never conceived it possible that so commonplace an emotion as
mere nervousness could find place beside the immensities of love
itself, yet, during the interminable moment when Garth crossed the
room to her side, she was supremely aware of an absurd desire to turn
and flee, and it was only by a sheer effort of will that she held her
ground.

The next moment he had shaken hands with her and was making some
tranquil observation upon the lateness of his arrival. His manner was
quite detached, every vestige of anything beyond mere conventional
politeness banished from it.

The coolly neutral inflections of his voice struck upon Sara's keyed-
up consciousness as an indifferent finger may twang the stretched
strings of a violin, producing a shuddering violation of their
harmony.

She hardly knew how she answered him. She only knew, with a sudden
overwhelming certainty, that the Garth who stood beside her now was a
different man, altered out of all kinship with the man who had held
her in his arms on Devil's Hood Island. The lover was gone; only the
acquaintance remained.

She stammered a few halting words by way of response, and--was she
mistaken, or did a sudden look of understanding, almost, it seemed, of
compunction, leap for a moment into his eyes, only to be replaced by
the brooding, bitter indifference habitual to them?

The opportune return of Audrey and her other guests, heralded by a
gust of cheerful laughter, tided over the difficult moment, and Garth
turned away to make his apologies to his hostess, blaming some slight
mishap to his car for the tardiness of his appearance.

Throughout lunch Sara conversed mechanically, responding like an
automaton when any one put a penny in the slot by asking her a
question. She felt utterly bewildered, stunned by Garth's behaviour.

Had their meeting been exchanged under the observant eyes of the rest
of the party, it would have been intelligible to her, for he was the
last man in the world to wear his heart upon his sleeve. But they had
been quite alone for the moment, and yet he had permitted no
acknowledgment of the new relations between them to appear either in
word or look. He had greeted her precisely as though they were no more
to each other than the merest acquaintances--as though the happenings
of the previous day had been wiped out of his mind. It was
incomprehensible!

Sara felt almost as if some one had dealt her a physical blow, and it
required all her pluck and poise to enable her to take her share of
the general conversation before wending their several ways homeward.

". . . And we'll picnic on Devil's Hood Island."

Audrey's high, clear voice, as she chattered to Molly,
characteristically propounding half-a-dozen plans for the immediate
future, floated across to Sara where she stood waiting on the lowest
step, impatient to be gone. As though drawn by some invisible magnet,
her eyes encountered Garth's, and the swift colour rushed into her
cheeks, staining them scarlet.

His expression was enigmatical. The next moment he bent forward and
spoke, in a low voice that reached her ear alone.

"Much maligned place--where I tasted my one little bit of heaven!"
Then, after a pause, he added deliberately: "But a black sheep has no
business with heaven. He'd be turned away from the doors--and quite
rightly, too! That's why I shall never ask for admittance." He
regarded her steadily for a moment, then quietly averted his eyes.

And Sara realized that in those few words he had revoked--repudiating
all that he had claimed, all that he had given, the day before.

"Letters are unsatisfactory things at the best of times, and what
we all want is to have you with us again for a little while. I am
sure you must have had a surfeit of the simple life by this time,
so come to us and be luxurious and exotic in London for a change.
Don't disappoint us, Sara!
"Yours ever affectionately,
"ELISABETH."

Sara, seated at the open window of her room, re-read the last
paragraph of the letter which the morning's post had brought her, and
then let it fall again on to her lap, whilst she stared with sombre
eyes across the bay to where the Monk's Cliff reared itself, stark and
menacing, against the sky.

April had slipped into May, and the blue waters of the Channel
flickered with a myriad dancing points of light reflected from an
unclouded sun. The trees had clothed themselves anew in pale young
green, and the whole atmosphere was redolent of spring--spring as she
reaches her maturity before she steps aside to let the summer in.

Sara frowned a little. She was out of tune with the harmony of things.
You need happiness in your heart to be at one with the eager pulsing
of new life, the reaching out towards fulfillment that is the
essential quality of spring. Whereas Sara's heart was empty of
happiness and hopes, and of all the joyous beginnings that are the
glorious appanage of youth. There could be no beginnings for her,
because she had already reached the end--reached it with such a
stupefying suddenness that for a time she had been hardly conscious of
pain, but only of a fierce, intolerable resentment and of a pride--
that "devil's own pride" which Patrick had told her was the Tennant
heritage--which had been wounded to the quick.

Garth had taken that pride of hers and ground it under his heel. He
had played at love, and she had been fool enough to mistake love's
simulacrum for the real thing. Or, if there had been any genuine spark
of love kindling the fire of passion that had blazed about her for one
brief moment, then he had since chosen deliberately to disavow it.

He had indicated his intention unmistakably. Since the day of the
luncheon party at Greenacres he had shunned meeting her whenever
possible, and, on the one or two occasions when an encounter had been
unavoidable, his manner had been frigidly indifferent and impersonal.

Outwardly she had repaid him in full measure--indifference for
indifference, ice for ice, gallantly matching her woman's pride
against his deliberate apathy, but inwardly she writhed at the
remembrance of that day on the island, when, in the stress of her
terror for his safety, she had let him see into the very heart of her.

Well, it was over now, and done with. The brief vision of love which
had given a new, transcendent significance to the whole of life, had
faded swiftly into bleak darkness, its memory marred by that bitterest
of all knowledge to a woman--the knowledge that she had been willing
to give her love, to make the great surrender, and that it had not
been required of her. All that remained was to draw a veil as decently
as might be over the forgettable humiliation.

The strain of the last fortnight had left its mark on her. The angles
of her face seemed to have become more sharply defined, and her eyes
were too brilliant and held a look of restlessness. But her lips
closed as firmly as ever, a courageous scarlet line, denying the power
of fate to thrust her under.

The Book of Garth--the book of love--was closed, but there were many
other volumes in life's library, and Sara did not propose to go
through the probable remaining fifty or sixty years of her existence
uselessly bewailing a dead past. She would face life, gamely, whatever
it might bring, and as she had already sustained one of the hardest
blows ever likely to befall her, she would probably make a success of
it.

But, unquestionably, she would be glad to get away from Monkshaven for
a time, to have leisure to readjust her outlook on life, free from the
ceaseless reminders that the place held for her.

Here in Monkshaven, it seemed as though Garth's personality informed
the very air she breathed. The great cliff where he had his dwelling
frowned at her from across the bay whenever she looked out of her
window, his name was constantly on the lips of those who made up her
little circle of friends, and every day she was haunted by the fear of
meeting him. Or, worse than all else, should that fear materialize,
the torment of the almost hostile relationship which had replaced
their former friendship had to be endured.

The invitation to join the Durwards in London had come at an opportune
moment, offering, as it did, a way of escape from the embarrassments
inseparable from the situation. Moreover, amid the distractions and
bustle of the great city it would be easier to forget for a little her
burden of pain and humiliation. There is so much time for thinking--
and for remembering--in the leisurely traquillity of country life.

Sara would have accepted the invitation without hesitation, but that
there seemed to her certain reasons why her absence from Sunnyside
just now was inadvisable--reasons based on her loyalty to Doctor Dick
and the trust he had reposed in her.

For the last few weeks she had been perplexed and not a little worried
concerning Molly's apparent accession to comparative wealth. Certain
small extravagances in which the latter had recently indulged must
have been, Sara knew, beyond the narrow limits of her purse, and
inquiry had elicited from Selwyn the fact that she had received no
addition to her usual allowance.

Molly herself had light-heartedly evaded all efforts to gain her
confidence, and Sara had refrained from putting any direct question,
since, after all, she was not the girl's guardian, and her
interference might very well be resented.

She was uneasily conscious that for some reason or other Molly was in
a state of tension, alternating between abnormally high spirits and
the depths of depression, and the recollection of that unpleasant
little episode of her indebtedness to Lester Kent lingered
disagreeably in Sara's mind.

She had seen the man once, in Oldhampton High Street--Molly, at that
time still clothed in penitence, had pointed him out to her--and she
had received an unpleasing impression of a lean, hatchet face with
deep-set, dense-brown eyes, and of a mouth like that of a bird of
prey.

She felt reluctant to go away and leave things altogether to chance,
and finally, unable to come to any decision, she carried Elisabeth's
letter down to Selwyn's study and explained the position.

His face clouded over at the prospect of her departure.

"We shall miss you abominably," he declared. "But of course"--ruefully
--"I can quite understand Mrs. Durward's wanting you to go back to
them for a time, and I suppose we must resign ourselves to being
unselfish. Only you must promise to come back again--you mustn't
desert us altogether."

She laughed.

"You needn't be afraid of that. I shall turn up again like the
proverbial bad penny."

"All the same, make it a promise," he urged.

"I promise, then, you distrustful man! But about Molly?"

"I don't think you need worry about her." Selwyn laughed a little.
"The sudden accession to wealth is accounted for. It seems that she
has sold a picture."

"Not exactly! She showed me one of her paintings the other day. It
looked like a bad motor-bus accident in a crowded street, and she told
me that it represented the physical atmosphere of a woman who had just
been jilted."

Sara laughed suddenly and hysterically.

"How--how awfully funny!" she said in an odd, choked voice. Then,
fearful of losing her self-command, she added hastily: "I'll write and
tell Elisabeth that I'll come, then." And fled out of the room.

As Sara stepped out of the train at Paddington, the first person upon
whom her eyes alighted was Tim Durward. He hastened up to her.

"Tim!" she exclaimed delightedly. "How dear of you to come and meet
me!"

"Didn't you expect I should?" He was holding her hand and joyfully
pump-handling it up and down as though he would never let it go, while
the glad light in his eyes would indubitably have betrayed him to any
passer-by who had chanced to glance in his direction.

Sara coloured faintly and withdrew her hands from his eager clasp.

"Oh, well, you might conceivably have had something else to do," she
returned evasively.

For an instant the blue eyes clouded.

"I never had anything to do," he said shortly. "You know that."

She laughed up at him.

"Now, Tim, I won't be growled at the first minute of my arrival. You
can pour out your grumbles another day. First now, I want to hear all
the news. Remember, I've been vegetating in the country since the
beginning of March!"

She drew him tactfully away from the old sore subject of his enforced
idleness, and, while the car bore them swiftly towards the Durwards'
house on Green Street, she entertained him with a description of the
Selwyn trio.

"I should think your 'Doctor Dick' considers himself damned lucky in
having got you there--seeing that his house seems all at sixes and
sevens," commented Tim rather glumly.

"He does. Oh! I'm quite appreciated, I assure you."

Tim made no reply, but stared out of the window. The car rounded the
corner into Park Lane; in another moment they would reach their
destination. Suddenly he turned to her, his face rather strained-
looking.

"And--the other man? Have you met him yet--at Monkshaven?"

There was no mistaking his meaning. Sara's eyes met his unflinchingly.

"If you mean has any one asked me to marry him--no, Tim. No one has
done me that honour," she answered lightly.

"I shall never get over it," he asserted doggedly. "And I shall never
give you up till you are another man's wife."

The quiet intensity of his tones sounded strangely in her ears. This
was a new Tim, not the boyish Tim of former times, but a man with all
a man's steadfast purpose and determination.

She was spared the necessity of reply by the fact that they had
reached their journey's end. The car slid smoothly to a standstill,
and almost simultaneously the house-door opened, and behind the
immaculate figure of the Durwards' butler Sara descried the welcoming
faces of Geoffrey and Elisabeth.

It was good to see them both again--Geoffrey, big and debonair as
ever, his jolly blue eyes beaming at her delightedly, and Elisabeth,
still with that same elusive atmosphere of charm which always seemed
to cling about her like the fragrance of a flower.

They were eager to hear Sara's news, plying her with questions, so
that before the end of her first evening with them they had gleaned a
fairly accurate description of her life at Sunnyside and of the new
circle of friends she had acquired.

But there was one name she refrained from mentioning--that of Garth
Trent, and none of Elisabeth's quietly uttered comments or inquiries
sufficed to break through the guard of her reticence concerning the
Hermit of Far End.

"It sounds rather a manless Eden--except for the nice, lame Herrick
person," said Elisabeth at last, and her hyacinth eyes, with their
curiously veiled expression, rested consideringly on Sara's face,
alight with interest as she had vividly sketched the picture of her
life at Monkshaven.

"Yes, I suppose it is rather," she admitted. Her tone was carelessly
indifferent, but the eager light died suddenly out of her face, and
Elisabeth, smiling faintly, adroitly turned the conversation.

Sara speedily discovered that she would have even less time for the
fruitless occupation of remembering than she had anticipated. The
Durwards owned a host of friends in town with whom they were immensely
popular, and Sara found herself caught up in a perpetual whirl of
entertainment that left her but little leisure for brooding over the
past.

She felt sometimes as though the London season had opened and
swallowed her up, as the whale swallowed Jonah, and when she declared
herself breathless with so much rushing about, Tim would coolly throw
over any engagement that chanced to have been made and carry her off
for a day up the river, where a quiet little lunch, in the tranquil
shade of overhanging trees, and the cosy, intimate talk that was its
invariable concomitant, seemed like an oasis of familiar, homely
pleasantness in the midst of the gay turmoil of London in May.

Tim had developed amazingly. He seemed instinctively to recognize her
moods, adapting himself accordingly, and in his thought and care for
her there was a half-playful, half-tender element of possessiveness
that sometimes brought a smile to her lips--and sometimes a sigh, as
the inevitable comparison asserted itself between Tim's gentle ruling
and the brusque, forceful mastery that had been Garth's. But, on the
whole, the visit to the Durwards was productive of more smiles than
sighs, and Sara found Tim's young, chivalrous devotion very soothing
to the wound her pride had suffered at Garth's hands.

She overflowed in gratitude to Elisabeth.

"You're giving me a perfectly lovely time," she told her. "And Tim
is such a good playfellow!"

Elisabeth's face seemed suddenly to glow with that inner radiance
which praise of her beloved Tim alone was able to inspire.

"Only that, Sara?" she said very quietly. Yet somehow Sara knew that
she meant to have an answer to her question.

"Why--why----" she stammered a little. "Isn't that enough?"--trying to
speak lightly.

Elisabeth shook her head.

"Tim wants more than a playfellow. Can't you give him what he wants,
Sara?"

Sara was silent a moment.

"I didn't know he had told you," she said, at last, rather lamely.

"Nor has he. Tim is loyal to the core. But a mother doesn't need
telling these things." Elisabeth's beautiful voice deepened. "Tim is
bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh--and he's soul of my soul as
well. Do you think, then, that I shouldn't know when he is hurt?"

Sara was strangely moved. There was something impressive in the
restrained passion of Elisabeth's speech, a certain primitive grandeur
in her envisagement of the relationship of mother and son.

"I expect," pursued Elisabeth calmly, "that you think I'm going too
far--farther than I have any right to. But it's any mother's right to
fight for her son's happiness, and I'm fighting for Tim's. Why won't
you marry him, Sara?" The question flashed out suddenly.

"Because--why--oh, because I'm not in love with him."

A gleam of rather sardonic mirth showed in Elisabeth's face.

"I wish," she observed, "that we lived in the good old days when you
could have been carried off by sheer force and compelled to marry
him."

Sara laughed outright.

"I really believe you mean it!" she said with some amusement.

Elisabeth nodded.

"I do. I shouldn't have hesitated."

"And what about me? You wouldn't have considered my feelings at all in
the matter, I suppose?" Sara was still smiling, yet she had a dim
consciousness that, preposterous as it sounded, Elisabeth would have
had no scruples whatever about putting such a plan into effect had it
been in any way feasible.

"No." Elisabeth replied with the utmost composure. "Tim comes first.
But"--and suddenly her voice melted to an indescribable sweetness--
"You would be almost one with him in my heart, because you had brought
him happiness." She paused, then launched her question with a delicate
hesitancy that skillfully concealed all semblance of the probe. "Tell
me--is there any one else who has asked of you what Tim asks? Perhaps
I have come too late with my plea?"

Sara shook her head.

"No," she said flatly, "there is no one else." With a sudden bitter
self-mockery she added: "Tim's is the only proposal of marriage I have
to my credit."

The repressed anxiety with which Elisabeth had been regarding her
relaxed, and a curious look of content took birth in the hyacinth
eyes. It was as though the bitterness of Sara's answer in some way
reassured her, serving her purpose.

"Then can't you give Tim what he wants? You will be robbing no one.
Sara"--her low voice vibrated with the urgency of her desire--"promise
me at least that you will think it over--that you will not dismiss the
idea as though it were impossible?"

Sara half rose; her eyes, wide and questioning, were fixed upon
Elisabeth's.

"But why--why do you ask me this?" she faltered.

"Because I think"--very softly--"that Tim himself will ask you the
same thing before very long. And I can't face what it will mean to him
if you send him away. . . . You would be happy with him, Sara. No
woman could live with Tim and not grow to love him--certainly no woman
whom Tim loved."

The depth of her conviction imbued her words with a strange force of
suggestion. For the first time the idea of marriage with Tim presented
itself to Sara as a remotely conceivable happening.

Hitherto she had looked upon his love for her as something which only
touched the outer fringe of her life--a temporary disturbance of the
good-comradely relations that had existed between them. With the easy
optimism of a woman whose heart has always been her own exclusive
property she had hoped he would "get over it."

But now Elisabeth's appeal, and the knowledge of the pain of love,
which love itself had taught her, quickened her mind to a new
understanding. Perhaps Elisabeth felt her yield to the impression she
had been endeavoring to create, for she rose and came and stood quite
close to her, looking down at her with shining eyes.

"Give my son his happiness!" she said. And the eternal supplication of
all motherhood was in her voice.

Sara made no answer. She sat very still, with bent head. Presently
there came the sound of light footsteps as Elisabeth crossed the room,
and, a moment later, the door closed softly behind her.

She had thrust a new responsibility on Sara's shoulders--the
responsibility of Tim's happiness.

"Give my son his happiness!" The poignant appeal of the words rang in
Sara's ears.

After all, why not? As Elisabeth had said, she would be robbing no one
by so doing. The man for whom had been reserved the place in the
sacred inner temple of her heart had signified very clearly that he
had no intention of claiming it.

No other would ever enter in his stead; the doors of that innermost
sanctuary would be kept closed, shutting in only the dead ashes of
remembrance. But if entrance to the outer courts of the temple meant
so much to Tim, why should she not make him free of them? That other
had come and gone again, having no need of her, while Tim's need was
great.

Life, at the moment stretched in front of her very vague and
purposeless, and she knew that by marrying Tim she would make three
people whom she loved, and who mattered most to her in the whole world
--Tim, and Elisabeth, and Geoffrey--supremely happy. No one need
suffer except herself--and for her there was no escape from suffering
either way.

So it came about that when, as her visit drew towards its close, Tim
came to her and asked her once again to be his wife, she gave him an
answer which by no stretch of the imagination could she have conceived
as possible a short three weeks before.

She was very frank with him. She was determined that if he married
her, it must be open-eyed, recognizing that she could only give him
honest liking in return for love. Upon a foundation of sincerity some
mutual happiness might ultimately be established, but there should be
no submerged rock of ignorance and misunderstanding on which their
frail barque of matrimonial happiness might later founder in a sea of
infinite regret.

"Are you willing to take me--like that?" she asked him. "Knowing that
I can only give you friendship? I wish--I wish I could give you what
you ask--but I can't."

Tim's eyes searched hers for a long moment.

"Is there some one else?" he asked at last.

A wave of painful colour flooded her face, then ebbed away, leaving it
curiously white and pinched-looking, but her eyes still met his
bravely.

"There is--no one who will ever want your place, Tim," she said with
an effort.

The sight of her evident distress hurt him intolerably.

"Forgive me!" he exclaimed quickly. "I had no right to ask that
question."

"Yes, you had," she replied steadily, "since you have asked me to be
your wife."

"Well, you've answered it--and it doesn't make a bit of difference. I
want you. I'll take what you can give me, Sara. Perhaps, some day,
you'll be able to give me love as well."

She shook her head.

"Don't count on that, Tim. Friendship, understanding, the comradeship
which, after all, can mean a good deal between a man and woman--all
these I can give you. And if you think those things are worth while,
I'll marry you. But--I'm not in love with you."

"You will be--I'm sure it's catching," he declared with the gay,
buoyant confidence which was one of his most endearing qualities.

Sara smiled a little wistfully.

"I wish it were," she said. "But please be serious, Tim dear--"

"How can I be?" he interrupted joyfully. "When the woman I love tells
me that she'll marry me, do you suppose I'm going to pull a long face
about it?"

He caught her in his arms and kissed her with all the impetuous
fervour of his two-and-twenty years. At the touch of his warm young
lips, her own lips whitened. For an instant, as she rested in his
arms, she was stabbed through and through by the memory of those other
arms that had held her as in a vice of steel, and of stormy,
passionate kisses in comparison with Tim's impulsive caress, half-shy,
half-reverent, seemed like clear water beside the glowing fire of red
wine.

She drew herself sharply out of his embrace. Would she never forget--
would she be for ever remembering, comparing? If so, God help her!

"No," she said quietly. "You needn't pull a long face over it. But--
but marriage is a serious thing, Tim, after all."

"My dear"--he spoke with a sudden gentle gravity--"don't misunderstand
me. Marriage with you is the most serious and wonderful and glorious
thing that could ever happen to a man. When you're my wife, I shall be
thanking God on my knees every day of my life. All the jokes and
nonsense are only so many little waves of happiness breaking on the
shore. But behind them there is always the big sea of my love for you
--the still waters, Sara."

Sara remained silent. The realization of the tender, chivalrous,
worshiping love this boy was pouring out at her feet made her feel
very humble--very ashamed and sorry that she could give so little in
return.

Presently she turned and held out her hands to him.

"Tim--my Tim," she said, and her voice shook a little. "I'll try not
to disappoint you."

The Durwards received the news of their son's engagement to Sara with
unfeigned delight. Geoffrey was bluffly gratified at the
materialization of his private hopes, and Elisabeth had never appeared
more captivating than during the few days that immediately followed.
She went about as softly radiant and content as a pleased child, and
even the strange, watchful reticence that dwelt habitually in her eyes
was temporarily submerged by the shining happiness that welled up
within them.

She urged that an early date should be fixed for the wedding, and
Sara, with a dreary feeling that nothing really mattered very much,
listlessly acquiesced. Driven by conflicting influences she had burned
her boats, and the sooner all signs of the conflagration were
obliterated the better.

But she opposed a quiet negative to the further suggestion that she
should accompany the Durwards to Barrow Court instead of returning to
Monkshaven.

"No, I can't do that," she said with decision. "I promised Doctor Dick
I would go back."

Elisabeth smiled airily. Apparently she had no scruples about the
keeping of promises.

"That's easily arranged," she affirmed. "I'll write to your precious
doctor man and tell him that we can't spare you."

As far as personal inclination was concerned, Sara would gladly have
adopted Elisabeth's suggestion. She shrank inexpressibly from
returning to Monkshaven, shrouded, as it was, in brief but poignant
memories, but she had given Selwyn her word that she would go back,
and, even in a comparatively unimportant matter such as this appeared,
she had a predilection in favour of abiding by a promise.

"I shouldn't," she replied with energy. "The people I love come first
--all the rest nowhere."

"Then I'm glad I'm one of the people you love," retorted Sara,
laughing. "And, let me tell you, I think you're a most unmoral
person."

Elisabeth looked at her reflectively.

"Perhaps I am," she acknowledged. "At least, from a conventional point
of view. Certainly I shouldn't let any so-called moral scruples spoil
the happiness of any one I cared about. However, I suppose you would,
and so we're all to be offered up on the altar of this twopenny-
halfpenny promise you've made to Dr. Selwyn?"

Sara laughed and kissed her.

"I'm afraid you are," she said.

If anything could have reconciled her to the sacrifice of inclination
she had made in returning to Monkshaven, it would have been the warmth
of the welcome extended to her on her arrival. Selwyn and Molly met
her at the station, and Jane Crab, resplendent in a new cap and apron
donned for the occasion, was at the gate when at last the pony brought
the governess-cart to a standstill outside. Even Mrs. Selwyn had
exerted herself to come downstairs, and was waiting in the hall to
greet the wanderer back.

"It will be a great comfort to have you back, my dear," she said with
unwonted feeling in her voice, and quite suddenly Sara felt abundantly
rewarded for the many weary hours upstairs, trying to win Mrs.
Selwyn's interest to anything exterior to herself.

"You're looking thinner," was Selwyn's blunt comment, as Sara threw
off her hat and coat. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

She flushed a little.

"Oh, racketing about, I suppose. I've been living in a perfect whirl.
Never mind, Doctor Dick, you shall fatten me up now with your good
country food and your good country air. Good gracious!"--as he closed
a big thumb and finger around her slender wrist and shook his head
disparagingly--"Don't look so solemn! I was always one of the lean
kine, you know."

"I don't think that London has agreed with you," rumbled Selwyn
discontentedly. "Your pulse is as jerky as a primitive cinema film.
You'd better not be in such a hurry to run away from us again.
Besides, we can't do without you, my dear."

With a mental jolt Sara recollected the fact of her approaching
marriage. How on earth should she break it to these good friends of
hers, who counted so much on her remaining with them, that within
three months--the longest period Elisabeth would consent to wait--she
would be leaving them permanently? It was manifestly impossible to
pour such a douche of cold water into the midst of the joyful warmth
of their welcome; and she decided to wait, at least until the next
day, before acquainting them with the fact of her engagement.

When morning came, the same arguments held good in favour of a further
postponement, and, as the days slipped by, it became increasingly
difficult to introduce the subject.

Moreover, amid the change of environment and influence, Sara
experienced a certain almost inevitable reaction of feeling. It was
not that she actually regretted her engagement, but none the less she
found herself supersensitively conscious of it, and she chafed against
the thought of the congratulations and all the kindly, well-meant
"fussation" which its announcement would entail.

She told herself irritably that this was only because she had not yet
had time to get used to the idea of regarding herself as Tim's future
wife; that, later on, when she had grown more accustomed to it, the
prospect of her friends' felicitations would appear less repugnant.
She had to face the ultimate fact that marriage, for her, did not mean
the crowning fulfillment of life; marriage with Tim would never be
anything more than a substitute, a next best thing.

With these thoughts in her mind, she finally decided to say nothing
about her engagement for the present, but to pick up the threads of
life at Sunnyside as though that crowded month in London, with its
unexpected culmination, had never been.

Once taken, the decision afforded her a curious sense of respite and
relief. It was very pleasant to drop back into the old habits of
managing the Sunnyside ménage--making herself indispensable to
Selwyn, humouring his wife, and keeping a watchful eye on Molly.

The latter, Sara found, was by far the most difficult part of her
task, and the vague apprehensions she had formed, and to some extent
shared with Selwyn before her visit to London, increased.

From an essentially lovable, inconsequent creature, with a temper of
an angel and the frankness of a child, Molly had become oddly nervous
and irritable, flushing and paling suddenly for no apparent cause, and
guardedly uncommunicative as to her comings and goings. She was oddly
resentful of any manifestation of interest in her affairs, and snubbed
Sara roundly when the latter ventured an injudicious inquiry as to
whether Lester Kent were still in the neighbourhood.

"How on earth should I know?" The golden-brown eyes met Sara's with a
look of nervous defiance. "I'm not his keeper." Then, as though
slightly ashamed of her outburst, she added more amiably: "I haven't
been down to the Club for weeks. It's been so hot--and I suppose I've
been lazy. But I'm going to-morrow. I shall be able to gratify your
curiosity concerning Lester Kent when I come home."

"Can't you arrange to go to Oldhampton the next day instead?"
continued Sara.

Molly frowned a little. At last--

"I tell you what I'll do," she said agreeably. "I'll come back by the
afternoon train and meet you at Greenacres." And with this concession
Sara had to be content.

Tea at Greenacres resolved itself into a kind of rarefied picnic, and,
as Sara crossed the cool green lawns in the wake of a smart
parlourmaid, she found that quite a considerable number of Audrey's
friends--and enemies--were gathered together under the shade of the
trees, partaking of tea and strawberries and cream. The elite of the
neighbourhood might find many disagreeable things to say concerning
Mrs. Maynard, but they were not in the least averse to accepting her
hospitality whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Sara's heart leapt suddenly as she descried Trent's lean, well-knit
figure amongst those dotted about on the lawn. She had tried very hard
to accustom herself to meet him with composure, but at each encounter,
although outwardly quite cool, her pulses raced, and to-day, the first
time she had seen him since her return from London, she felt as though
all her nerves were outside her skin instead of underneath it.

He was talking to Miles Herrick. The latter, lying back luxuriously in
a deck-chair, proceeded to wave and beckon an enthusiastic greeting as
soon as he caught sight of Sara, and rather reluctantly she responded
to his signals and made her way towards the two men.

"I feel like a bloated sultan summoning one of the ladies of the harem
to his presence," confessed Miles apologetically when he had shaken
hands. "I've added a sprained ankle to my other disabilities," he
continued cheerfully. "Hence my apparent laziness."

Sara commiserated appropriately.

"How did you manage to get here?" she asked.

Miles gestured towards Trent.

"This man maintained that it was bad for my mental and moral health to
brood alone at home while Lavinia went skipping off into society
unchaperoned. So he fetched me along in his car."

Sara's eyes rested thoughtfully on Trent's face a moment.

It was odd how kindly and considerate he always showed himself towards
Miles Herrick. Perhaps somewhere within him a responsive chord was
touched by the evidence of the other man's broken life.

"Miss Tennant is thinking that it's a case of the blind leading the
blind for me to act as a cicerone into society," remarked Trent
curtly.

Sara winced at the repellent hardness of his tone, but she declined to
take up the challenge.

"I am very glad you persuaded Miles to come over," was all she said.

Trent's lips closed in a straight line. It seemed as though he were
trying to resist the appeal of her gently given answer; and Miles,
conscious of the antagonism in the atmosphere, interposed with some
commonplace question concerning her visit to London.

"You're looking thinner than you were, Sara," he added critically.

She flushed a little as she felt Trent's hawk-like glance sweep over
her.

"Oh, I've been leading too gay a life," she said hastily. "The
Durwards seem to know half London, so that we crowded about a dozen
engagements into each day--and a few more into the night."

"Durward?" The word sprang violently from Trent's lips, almost as
though jerked out of him, and Sara, glancing towards him in some
astonishment, surprised a strange, suddenly vigilant expression in his
face. It was immediately succeeded by a blank look of indifference,
yet beneath the assumption of indifference his eyes seemed to burn
with a kind of slumbering hostility.

"Yes--the people I have been staying with," she explained. "Do you
know them, by any chance?"

"I really can't say," he replied carelessly. "Durward is not a very
uncommon name, is it?"

"Their name was originally Lovell--they only acquired the Durward with
some property. Mrs. Durward is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. I
believe in her younger days she had half London in love with her."

Sara hardly knew why she felt impelled to supply so many particulars
concerning the Durwards. After that first brief exclamation, Trent
seemed to have lost interest, and appeared to be rather bored by the
recital than otherwise. He made no comment when she had finished.

"Then you don't know them?" she asked at last.

"I?" He started slightly, as though recalled to the present by her
question. "No. I haven't the pleasure to be numbered amongst Mrs.
Durward's friends," he said quietly. "I have seen her, however."

"She is very beautiful, don't you think?" persisted Sara.

"Very," he replied indifferently. And then, quite deliberately, he
directed the conversation into another channel, leaving Sara feeling
exactly as though a door had been slammed in her face.

It was his old method of putting an end to a discussion that failed to
please him--this arrogantly abrupt transition to another subject--and,
though it served its immediate purpose, it was a method that had its
weaknesses. If you deliberately hide behind a hedge, any one who
catches you in the act naturally wonders why you are doing it.

Even Miles looked a trifle astonished at Trent's curt dismissal of the
Durward topic, and Sara, who had observed the strange expression that
leaped into his eyes--half-guarded, half inimical--felt convinced that
he knew more about the Durwards than he had chosen to acknowledge.

She could not imagine in what way they were connected with his life,
nor why he should have been so averse to admitting his knowledge of
them. But there were many inexplicable circumstances associated with
the man who had chosen to live more or less the life of a recluse at
Far End; and Sara, and the little circle of intimates who had at last
succeeded in drawing him into their midst, had accustomed themselves
to the atmosphere of secrecy that seemed to envelope him.

From his obvious desire to eschew the society of his fellow men and
women, and from the acid cynicism of his outlook on things in general,
it had been gradually assumed amongst them that some happenings in the
past had marred his life, poisoning the springs of faith, and hope,
and charity at their very fount, and with the tact of real friendship
they never sought to discover what he so evidently wished concealed.

"Where is Molly to-day?" Miles's pleasant voice broke across the
awkward moment, giving yet a fresh trend to the conversation that was
languishing uncomfortably.

Sara's gaze ranged searchingly over the little groups of people
sprinkled about the lawn.

"Isn't she here yet?" she asked, startled. "She was coming back from
Oldhampton by the afternoon train, and promised to meet me here."

Miles looked at his watch.

"The attractions of Oldhampton have evidently proved too strong for
her," he said a little drily. "If she had come by the afternoon train,
she would have been here an hour ago."

Sara looked troubled.

"Oh, but she must be here--somewhere," she insisted rather
anxiously.

"Shall I see if I can find her for you?" suggested Trent stiffly.

Sara, sensing his wish to be gone and genuinely disturbed at Molly's
non-appearance, acquiesced.

"I should be very glad if you would," she answered. Then turning to
Miles, she went on: "I can't think where she can be. Somehow, Molly
has become rather--difficult, lately."

Herrick smiled.

"Don't look so distressed. It is only a little ebullition of la
jeunesse."

Sara turned to him swiftly.

"Then you've noticed it, too--that she is different?"

He nodded.

"Lookers-on see most of the game, you know. And I'm essentially a
looker-on." He bit back a quick sigh, and went on hastily: "But I
don't think you need worry about our Molly's vagaries. She's too sound
au fond to get into real mischief."

Sara looked at him affectionately, reflecting that Trent's black
cynicism made a striking foil to the serene and constant charity of
Herrick's outlook.

"You always look for the best in people, Miles," she said
appreciatively.

"I have to. Don't you see, people are my whole world. I'm cut off from
everything else. If I didn't look for the best in them, I should want
to kill myself. And I'm pretty lucky," he added, smiling humorously.
"I generally find what I'm looking for."

At this moment Trent returned with the news that Molly was nowhere to
be found. It was evident she had not come to Greenacres at all.

Sara rose, feeling oddly apprehensive.

"Then I think I shall go home and see if she has arrived there yet,"
she said. She smiled down at Miles. "Even irresponsibility needs
checking--if carried too far."

"Yes, miss. A telegram came for him early in the afternoon, while he
was out on his rounds, asking him to go to a friend who is lying at
death's door, as you may say. And please, miss, Dr. Selwyn said he
would be glad to see you as soon as you came in."

"Very well, I'll go to him at once. Where is Miss Molly? Has she come
back yet?"

"Come and gone again, miss. The doctor asked her to send off a wire
for him."

"I see." Sara nodded somewhat abstractly. She was still wondering
confusedly why Molly had failed to put in any appearance at
Greenacres. "What time did she come in?"

"About a quarter of an hour ago, miss. She missed the early train back
from Oldhampton."

Sara's instant feeling of relief was tempered by a mild element of
self-reproach. She had been agitating herself about nothing--allowing
her uneasiness about Molly to become a perfect obsession, leading her
into the wildest imaginings. Here had she been disquieting herself the
entire afternoon because Molly had not turned up as arranged, and
after all, the simple, commonplace explanation of the matter was that
she had missed her train!

Smiling over the groundlessness of her fears, Sara hastened away to
Selwyn's study, and found him, seated at his desk, scribbling some
hurried motes concerning various cases among his patients for the
enlightenment of the medical man who was taking charge of the practice
during his absence.

"Oh, there you are, Sara!" he exclaimed, laying down his pen as she
entered. "I'm glad you have come back before I go. I'm off in half-an-
hour. Did Jane tell you?"

"Yes. I'm very sorry your friend is so ill."

Selwyn's face clouded over.

"I'd like to see him again," he answered simply. "We haven't met for
some years--not since my wife's health brought me to Monkshaven--but
we were good pals at one time, he and I. Luckily, I've been able to
arrange with Dr. Mitchell to include my patients in his round, and if
you'll take charge of everything here at home, Sara, I shall have
nothing to worry about while I'm away."

"Of course I will. It's very nice of you to entrust your family to my
care so confidently."

"Quite confidently," he replied. "I'm not afraid of anything going
wrong if you're at the helm."

"How long do you expect to be away?" asked Sara presently.

"A couple of days at the outside. I hope to get back the day after
to-morrow."

Denuded of Selwyn's big, kindly presence, the house seemed curiously
silent. Even Jane Crab appeared to feel the effect of his absence, and
strove less forcefully with her pots and pans--which undoubtedly made
for an increase of peace and quiet--while Molly was frankly depressed,
stealing restlessly in and out of the rooms like some haunting shadow.

"What on earth's the matter with you?" Sara asked her laughingly.
"Hasn't your father ever been away from home before? You're wandering
about like an uneasy spirit!"

"I am an uneasy spirit," responded Molly bluntly. "I feel as though
I'd a cold coming on, and I always like Dad to doctor me when I'm
ill."

"I can doctor a cold," affirmed Sara briskly. "Put your feet in hot
water and mustard to-night and stay in bed to-morrow."

Molly considered the proposed remedies in silence.

"Perhaps I will stay in bed to-morrow," she said, at last,
reluctantly. "Should you mind? We were going down to see the Lavender
Lady, you remember."

"I'll go alone. Anyway"--smiling--"if you're safely tucked up in bed,
I shall know you're not getting into any mischief while Doctor Dick's
away! But very likely the hot water and mustard will put you all
right."

"Perhaps it will," agreed Molly hopefully.

The next morning, however, found her in bed, snuffling and complaining
of headache, and pathetically resigned to the idea of spending the day
between the sheets. Obviously she was in no fit state to inflict her
company on other people, so, in the afternoon, after settling her
comfortably with a new novel and a box of cigarettes at her bedside,
Sara took her solitary way to Rose Cottage.

There she found Garth Trent, sitting beside Herrick's couch and deep
in an enthusiastic discussion of amateur photography. But, immediately
on her entrance, the eager, interested expression died out of his
face, and very shortly after tea he made his farewells, nor could any
soft blandishments on the part of the Lavender Lady prevail upon him
to remain longer.

Sara felt hurt and resentful. Since the day of the expedition to
Devil's Hood Island, Trent had punctiliously avoided being in her
company whenever circumstances would permit him to do so, and she was
perfectly aware that it was her presence at Rose Cottage which was
responsible for his early departure this afternoon.

A gleam of anger flickered in the black depths of her eyes as he shook
hands.

"I'm sorry I've driven you away," she flashed at him beneath her
breath, with a bitterness akin to his own. He made no answer, merely
releasing her hand rather quickly, as though something in her words
had flicked him on the raw.

"What a pity Mr. Trent had to leave so soon," remarked Miss Lavinia,
with innocent regret, when he had gone. "I'm afraid we shall never
persuade him to be really sociable, poor dear man! He seems a little
moody to-day, don't you think?"--hesitating delicately.

"He's a bore!" burst out Sara succinctly.

Miles shook his head.

"No, I don't think that," he said. "But he's a very sick man. In my
opinion, Trent's had his soul badly mauled at some time or other."

"He needn't advertise the fact, then," retorted Sara, unappeased. "We
all get our share of ill-luck. Garth behaves as if he had the
monopoly."

"There are some scars which can't be hidden," replied Miles quietly.

Sara smiled a little. There was never any evading Herrick's broad
tolerance of human nature.

It was nearly an hour later when at last she took her way homewards,
carrying in her heart, in spite of herself, something of the gentle
serenity that seemed to be a part of the very atmosphere at Rose
Cottage.

Outside, the calm and fragrance of a June evening awaited her. Little,
delicate, sweet-smelling airs floated over the tops of the hedges from
the fields beyond, and now and then a few stray notes of a blackbird's
song stole out from a plantation near at hand, breaking off suddenly
and dying down into drowsy, contented little cluckings and
twitterings.

Across the bay the sun was dipping towards the horizon, flinging along
the face of the waters great shafts of lambent gold and orange, that
split into a thousand particles of shimmering light as the ripples
caught them up and played with them, and finally tossed them back
again to the sun from the shining curve of a wave's sleek side.

It was all very tranquil and pleasant, and Sara strolled leisurely
along, soothed into a half-waking dream by the peaceful influences of
the moment. Even the manifold perplexities and tangles of life seemed
to recede and diminish in importance at the touch of old Mother
Nature's comforting hand. After all, there was much, very much, that
was beautiful and pleasant still left to enjoy.

It is generally at moments like these, when we are sinking into a
placid quiescence of endurance, that Fate sees fit to prod us into a
more active frame of mind.

In this particular instance destiny manifested itself in the
unassuming form of Black Brady, who slid suddenly down from the
roadside hedge, amid a crackling of branches and rattle of rubble, and
appeared in front of Sara's astonished eyes just as she was nearing
home.

"Beg pardon, miss"--Brady tugged at a forelock of curly black hair--"I
was just on me way to your place."

"To Sunnyside? Why, is Mrs. Brady ill again?" asked Sara kindly.

"No, miss, thank you, she's doing nicely." He paused a moment as
though at a loss how to continue. Then he burst out: "It's about Miss
Molly--the doctor bein' away and all."

"About Miss Molly?" Sara felt a sudden clutch at her heart. "What do
you mean? Quick, Brady, what is it?"

"Well, miss, I've just seed 'er go off 'long o' Mr. Kent in his big
motor-car. They took the London road, and"--here Brady shuffled his
feet with much embarrassment--"seein' as Mr. Kent's a married man,
I'll be bound he's up to no good wi' Miss Molly."

Sara could have stamped with vexation. The little fool--oh! The utter
little fool--to go off joy-riding in an evening like that! A break-
down of any kind, with a consequent delay in returning, and all
Monkshaven would be buzzing with the tale!

For the moment, however, there was nothing to be done except to put
Black Brady in his place and pray for Molly's speedy return.

"You haven't understood, miss," he said doggedly. "Mr. Kent isn't for
bringing Miss Molly back again. They'd their luggage along wi' 'em in
the car, and Mr. Kent, he stopped at the 'Cliff' to have the tank
filled up and took a matter of another half-dozen cans o' petrol with
'im."

In an instant the whole dreadful significance of the thing leaped into
Sara's mind. Molly had bolted--run away with Lester Kent!

It was easy enough now, in the flashlight kindled by Brady's slow,
inexorable summing up of detail, to see the drift of recent
happenings, the meaning of each small, disconcerting fact that added a
fresh link to the chain of probability.

Molly's unwonted secretiveness; her strange, uncertain moods; her
embarrassment at finding she was expected at Greenacres when she had
presumably agreed to meet Lester Kent in Oldhampton; and, last of all,
the sudden "cold" which had developed coincidentally with her father's
absence from home and which had secured her freedom from any kind of
supervision for the afternoon. And the opportunity of clinching
arrangements--probably already planned and dependent only on a
convenient moment--had been provided by her errand to the post office
to send off her father's telegram--it being as easy to send two
telegrams as one.

The colour ebbed slowly from Sara's face as full realization dawned
upon her, and she swayed a little where she stood. With rough
kindliness Brady stretched out a grimy hand and steadied her.

" 'Ere, don't' take on, miss. They won't get very far. I didn't, so to
speak, fill the petrol tank"--with a grin--"and there ain't more
than two o' they cans I slipped aboard the car as 'olds more'n air.
The rest was empties"--the grin widened enjoyably--"which I shoved in
well to the back. Mr. Kent won't travel eighty miles afore 'e calls a
'alt, I reckon."

Sara looked at Brady's cunning, kindly face almost with affection.

"Why did you do that?" she asked swiftly.

"I've owed Mr. Lester Kent summat these three years," he answered
complacently. "And I never forgets to pay back. I owed you summat,
too, Miss Tennant. I haven't forgot how you spoke up for me when I was
catched poachin'."

Sara held out her hand to him impulsively, and Brady sheepishly
extended his own grubby paw to meet it.

"You've more than paid me back, Brady," she said warmly. "Thank you."

Turning away, she hurried up the road, leaving Brady staring
alternately at his right hand and at her receding figure.

"She's rare gentry, is Miss Tennant," he remarked with conviction, and
then slouched off to drink himself blind at "The Jolly Sailorman."
Black Brady was, after all, only an inexplicable bundle of good and
bad impulses--very much like his betters.

Arrived at the house, Sara fled breathlessly upstairs to Molly's room.
Jane Crab was standing in the middle of it, staring dazedly at all the
evidences of a hasty departure which surrounded her--an overturned
chair here, an empty hat-box there, drawers pulled out, and clothes
tossed heedlessly about in every direction. In her hand she held a
chemist's parcel, neatly sealed and labeled; she was twisting it round
and round in her trembling, gnarled old fingers.

At the sound of Sara's entrance, she turned with an exclamation of
relief.

"Oh, Miss Sara! I'm main glad you've come! Whatever's happened? Miss
Molly was here in bed not three parts of an hour ago!" Then, her boot-
button eyes still roving round the room, she made a sudden dart
towards the dressing-table. "Here, miss, 'tis a note she's left for
you!" she exclaimed, snatching it up and thrusting it into Sara's
hands.

Written in Molly's big, sprawling, childish hand, the note was a
pathetic mixture of confession and apology--

"I feel a perfect pig, Sara mine, leaving you behind to face
Father, but it was my only chance of getting away, as I know Dad
would have refused to let me marry for years and years. He never
will realize that I'm grown-up. And Lester and I couldn't wait
all that time.

"I felt an awful fraud last night, letting you fuss over my
supposed 'cold,' you dear thing. Do forgive me. And you must come
and stay with us the minute we get back from our honeymoon. We are
to be married to-morrow morning.
"--MOLLY.

"P.S.--Don't worry--it's all quite proper and respectable. I'm to
go straight to the house of one of Lester's sisters in London.

"P.P.S.--I'm frantically happy."

Sara's eyes were wet when she finished the perusal of the hastily
scribbled letter. "We are to be married to-morrow morning!" The blind,
pathetic confidence of it! And if Black Brady had spoken the truth, if
Lester Kent were already a married man, to-morrow morning would
convert the trusting, wayward baby of a woman, with her adorable
inconsistencies and her big, generous heart, into something Sara dared
not contemplate. The thought of the look in those brown-gold eyes,
when Molly should know the truth, brought a lump into her throat.

She turned to Jane Crab.

"Listen to me, Jane," she said tersely. "Miss Molly's run away with
Mr. Lester Kent. She thinks he's going to marry her. But he can't--
he's married already----"

"Sakes alive!" Just that one brief exclamation, and then suddenly
Jane's lower lip began to work convulsively, and two tears squeezed
themselves out of her little eyes, and her whole face puckered up like
a baby's.

Sara caught her by the arm and shook her.

"Don't cry!" she said vehemently. "You haven't time! We've got to save
her--we've got to get her back before any one knows. Do you
understand? Stop crying at once!"

Jane reacted promptly to the fierce imperative, and sniffingly choked
back her tears. Suddenly her eyes fell on the little package from the
chemist which she still held clutched in her hand.

"The artfulness of her!" she ejaculated indignantly. "Asking me to go
along to the chemist's and bring her back some aspirin for her
headache! And me, like a fool, suspecting nothing, off I goes! There's
the stuff!"--viciously flinging the chemist's parcel on to the floor.
"Eh! Miss Molly'll have more than a headache to face, I'm thinking!"

"But she mustn't, Jane! We've got to get her back, somehow."

Though Sara spoke with such assured conviction, she was inwardly
racked with anxiety. What could they do--two forlorn women? And to
whom could they turn for help? Miles? He was lame. He was no abler to
help than they themselves. And Selwyn was away, out of reach!

"We must get her back," she repeated doggedly.

"And how, may I ask, Miss Sara?" inquired Jane bitterly. "Be you goin'
to run after the motor-car, mayhap?"

For a moment Sara was silent. The sarcastic query had set the spark to
the tinder, and now she was thinking rapidly, some semblance of a plan
emerging at last from the chaotic turmoil of her mind.

Garth Trent! He could help her! He had a car--Sara did not know its
pace, but she was certain Trent could be trusted to get every ounce
out of it that was possible. Between them--he and she--they would
bring Molly back to safety!

She turned swiftly to Jane Crab.

"Come to the stable and help me put in the Doctor's pony, Jane. You
know how, don't you?"

"Yes, miss, I've helped the master many a time. But you ain't going to
catch no motor with old Toby, Miss Sara."

"No, I don't expect to. I'm gong to drive across to Far End. Mr. Trent
will help us. Don't worry, Jane"--as the two made their way to the
stable and Jane strangled a sob--"we'll bring Miss Molly back. And,
listen! Mrs. Selwyn isn't to hear a word of this. Do you understand?
If she asks you anything, tell her that Miss Molly and I are dining
out. That'll be true enough, too," added Sara grimly, "if we dine at
all!"

Jane sniffed, and swallowed loudly.

"Yes, miss," she said submissively. "You and Miss Molly are dining
out. I won't forget."

Selwyn's pony had rarely before found himself hustled along at the
pace at which Sara drove him. She let him take his time up the hills,
knowing, as every good horse-woman knows, that if you press your horse
against the hill, he will only flag the sooner and that you will lose
more than you gain. But down the hills and along the flat, Sara, with
hands and whip, kept Toby going at an amazing pace. Perhaps something
of her own urgency communicated itself to the good-hearted beast, for
he certainly made a great effort and brought her to Far End in a
shorter time than she had deemed possible.

Exactly as she pulled him to a standstill, the front door opened and
Garth himself appeared. He had heard the unwonted sound of wheels on
the drive, and now, as he recognized his late visitor, an expression
of extreme surprise crossed his face.

"Miss Tennant!" he exclaimed in astonished tones.

"Yes. Can your man take my pony? And, please may I come in? I--I must
see you alone for a few minutes."

Trent glanced at her searchingly as his ear caught the note of strain
in her voice.

Summoning Judson to take charge of the pony and trap, he led the way
into the comfortable, old fashioned hall and wheeled forward an
armchair.

"Sit down," he said composedly. "Now"--as she obeyed--"tell me what is
the matter."

His manner held a quiet friendliness. The chill indifference he had
accorded her of late--even earlier that same day at Rose Cottage--had
vanished, and his curiously bright eyes regarded her with sympathetic
interest.

To the man as he appeared at the moment, it was no difficult matter
for Sara to unburden her heart, and a few minutes later he was in
possession of all the facts concerning Molly's flight.

"I don't know whether Mr. Kent is really a married man or not," she
added in conclusion. "Brady declares that he is."

"He is," replied Trent curtly. "Very much married. His first wife
divorced him, and, since then, he has married again."

"Oh----!" Sara half-rose from her seat, her face blanching. Not till
that moment did she realize how much in her inmost heart she had been
relying on the hope that Garth might be able to contradict Black
Brady's statement.

"Don't worry." Garth laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her
gently back into her chair again. "Don't worry. Thanks to Brady's
stroke of genius about the petrol--I've evidently underestimated the
man's good points--I think I can promise you that you shall have Miss
Molly safely back at Sunnyside in the course of a few hours. That is,
if you are willing to trust me in the matter."

"Of course I will trust you," she answered simply. Somehow it seemed
as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders since she
had confided her trouble to Garth.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Now, while Judson gets the car round,
you must have a glass of wine."

"No--oh, no!"--hastily--"I don't want anything."

"Allow me to know better than you do in this case," he replied,
smiling.

He left the room, presently returning with a bottle of champagne and a
couple of glasses.

"Oh, please--I'd so much rather start at once," she protested. "I
really don't want anything. Do let us hurry!"

"I'm sorry, but I've no intention of starting until you have drunk
this"--filling and handing one of the glasses to her.

Rather than waste time in further argument, she accepted it, only to
find that her hand was shaking uncontrollably, so that the edge of the
glass chattered against her teeth.

"I--I can't!" she gasped helplessly. Now that she had shared her
burden of responsibility, the demands of the last half-hour's anxiety
and strain were making themselves felt.

With a swift movement Garth took the glass from her, and, supporting
her with his other arm, held it to her lips.

"Drink it down," he said authoritatively. Then, as she paused: "All of
it!"

In a few minutes the wine had brought the colour back to her face, and
she felt more like herself again.

"I'm all right, now," she said. "I'm sorry I was such a fool. But--but
this business about Molly has given me rather a shock, I suppose."

"Naturally. Now, if you're ready, we'll make a start."

She rose, and he surveyed her slight figure in its thin muslin gown
with some amusement.

"Not quite a suitable costume for motoring by night," he remarked. He
picked up one of the two big fur coats Mrs. Judson had brought into
the room. "Here, put this on." Then, when he had fastened it round her
and turned the collar up about her neck, he stood looking at her for a
moment in silence.

The whole of her slender form was hidden beneath the voluminous folds
of the big coat, which had been originally designed to fit Garth's own
proportions, and against the high fur collar her delicate cameo face,
with its white skin and scarlet lips and its sombre, night-black eyes,
emerged like some vivid flower from its sheath.

Trent laughed shortly.

"Beauty--in the garment of the Beast," he commented. Then, briskly:
"Come along. Judson will have the car ready by now."

Sara stepped into the car and he tucked the rugs carefully round her.
Then, directing Judson to drive the Selwyn pony and trap back to
Sunnyside, he took his place at the wheel and the car slid noiselessly
away down the broad drive.

"The surprising discovery of the doctor's pony and trap at Far End
to-morrow morning would require explanation," he observed grimly to
Sara. She blessed his thoughtfulness.

"What about Judson?" she asked. "Is he reliable? Or do you think he
will--talk?"

"Judson," replied Garth, "has been in my service long enough to know
the meaning of the word 'discretion.' "

Trent drove the car steadily enough through town, but, as soon as they
emerged on to the great London main road, he let her out and they
swept rapidly along through the lingering summer twilight.

"Are you nervous?" he asked. "Do you mind forty or fifty miles an hour
when we've a clear stretch ahead of us?"

"Eighty, if you like," she replied succinctly.

She felt the car leap forward like a living thing beneath them as it
gathered speed.

"Do you think--is it possible that we can overtake them?" she asked
anxiously.

"It's got to be done," he answered, and she was conscious of the quiet
driving-force that lay behind the speech--the stubborn resolution of
the man which she had begun to recognize as his most dominant
characteristic.

She wondered, as she had so often wondered before, whether any one had
ever yet succeeded in turning Garth Trent aside from his set purpose,
whatever it might chance to be. She could not imagine his yielding to
either threats or persuasions. However much it might cost him, he
would carry out his intention to the bitter end, even though its
fulfillment might involve the shattering of the whole significance of
life.

"Besides,"--his voice cut across the familiar tenor of her thoughts--
"Kent will probably stop to dine at some hotel en route. We shan't.
We'll feed as we go."

"Oh--h!" A gasp of horrified recollection escaped her. "I never
thought of it! Of course you've had no dinner!"

He laughed. "Have you?" he asked amusedly.

"No, but that's different."

"Well, we'll even matters up by having some sandwiches together
presently. Mrs. Judson has packed some in."

Sara was silent, inwardly dwelling on the fact that no least detail
ever seemed to escape Garth's attention. Even in the hurry of their
departure, and with the whole scheme of Molly's rescue to envisage, he
had yet found time to order due provision for the journey.

An hour later they pulled up at the principal hotel of the first big
town on the route, and Garth elicited the fact that a car answering to
the description of Lester Kent's had stopped there, but only for a
bare ten minutes which had enabled its occupants to snatch a hasty
meal.

"They've been here and gone straight on," he reported to Sara.
"Evidently Kent's taking no chances"--grimly. And a moment later they
were on their way once more.

Dusk deepened into dark, and the car's great headlights cut out a
blazing track of gold in front of them as they rushed along the pale
ribbon of road that stretched ahead--mile after interminable mile.

On either side, dark woods merged into the deeper darkness of the
encroaching night, seeming to slip past them like some ghostly
marching army as the car tore its way between the ranks of shadowy
trunks. Overhead, a few stars crept out, puncturing the expanse of
darkening sky--pale, tremulous sparks of light in contrast with the
steady, warmly golden glow that streamed from the lights of the car.

Presently Garth slackened speed.

"Why are you stopping?" Sara's voice, shrilling a little with anxiety,
came to him out of the darkness.

"I'm not stopping. I'm only slowing down a bit, because I think it's
quite feeding time. Do you mind opening those two leather attachments
fixed in front of you? Such nectar and ambrosia as Mrs. Judson has
provided is in there."

Sara leaned forward, and unbuckling the lid of a flattish leather case
which, together with another containing a flask, was slung just
opposite her, withdrew from within it a silver sandwich-box. She
snapped open the lid and proffered the box to Garth.

"Help yourself. And--do you mind"--he spoke a little uncertainly and
the darkness hid the expression of his face from her--"handing me my
share--in pieces suitable for human consumption? This is a bad bit of
road, and I want both hands for driving the car."

In silence Sara broke the sandwiches and fed him, piece by piece,
while he bent over the wheel, driving steadily onward.

The little, intimate action sent a curious thrill through her. It
seemed in some way to draw them together, effacing the memory of those
weeks of bitter indifference which lay behind them. Such a thing would
have been grotesquely impossible of performance in the atmosphere of
studied formality supplied by their estrangement, and Sara smiled a
little to herself under cover of the darkness.

"One more mouthful!" she announced as she halved the last sandwich.

An instant later she felt his lips brush her fingers in a sudden,
burning kiss, and she withdrew her hand as though stung.

She was tingling from head to foot, every nerve of her a-thrill, and
for a moment she felt as though she hated him. He had been so kind, so
friendly, so essentially the good comrade in this crisis occasioned by
Molly's flight, and now he had spoilt it all--playing the lover once
more when he had shown her clearly that he meant nothing by it.

Apparently he sensed her attitude--the quick withdrawal of spirit
which had accompanied the more physical retreat.

"Forgive me!" he said, rather low. "I won't offend again."

She made no answer, and presently she felt the car sliding slowly to a
standstill. A sudden panic assailed her.

"What is it? What are you doing?" she asked, quick fear in her sharply
spoken question.

He laughed shortly.

"You needn't be afraid--" he began.

"I'm not!" she interpolated hastily.

"Excuse me," he said drily, "but you are. You don't trust me in the
slightest degree. Well"--she could guess, rather than see, the shrug
which accompanied the words--"I can't blame you. It's my own fault, I
suppose."

He braked the car, and she quivered to a dead stop, throbbing like a
live thing in the darkness.

"You must forgive me for being so material," he went on composedly,
"but I want a drink, and I'm not acrobat enough to manage that, even
with your help, while we're doing thirty miles an hour."

He lifted out the flask, and, when they had both drunk, Sara meekly
took it from him and proceeded to adjust the screw cap and fit the
silver cup back into its place over the lower half of the flask.

Simultaneously she felt the car begin to move forward, and then, quite
how it happened she never knew, but, fumbling in the darkness, she
contrived to knock the cup sharply against the flask, and it flew out
of her hand and over the side of the car. Impulsively she leaned out,
trying to snatch it back as it fell, and, in the same instant,
something seemed to give way, and she felt herself hurled forward into
space. The earth rushed up to meet her, a sound as of many waters
roared in her ears, and then the blank darkness of unconsciousness
swallowed her up.

The words, percolating slowly through the thick, blankety mist that
seemed to have closed about her, impressed themselves on Sara's mind
with a vague, confused suggestion of their pertinence. It was as
though some one--she wasn't quite sure who--had suddenly given voice
to her own immediate sensation of relief.

At first she could not imagine for what reason she should feel so
specially grateful and relieved. Gradually, however, the mists began
to clear away and recollection of a kind returned to her.

She remembered dropping something--she couldn't recall precisely what
it was that she had dropped, but she knew she had made a wild clutch
at it and tried to save it as it fell. Then--she was remembering more
distinctly now--something against which she had been leaning--she
couldn't recall what that was, either--gave way suddenly, and for the
fraction of a second she had known she was going to fall and be
killed, or, at the least, horribly hurt and mutilated.

And now, it seemed, she had not been hurt at all! She was in no pain;
only her head felt unaccountably heavy. But for that, she was really
very comfortable. Some one was holding her--it was almost like lying
back in a chair--and against her cheek she could feel the soft warmth
of fur.

"Sara--beloved!"

It was Garth's voice, quite close to her ear. He was holding her in
his arms.

Ah! She knew now! They were on the island together, and he had just
asked her if she cared. Of course she cared! It was sheer happiness to
lie in his arms, with closed eyes, and hear his voice--that deep,
unhappy voice of his--grow suddenly so incredibly soft and tender.

"You're mine, now, sweet! Mine to hold just for this once, dear of my
heart!"

No, that couldn't be right, after all, because it wasn't Garth who
loved her. He had only pretended to care for her by way of amusing
himself. It must be Tim who was talking to her--Tim, whom she was
going to marry.

Then, suddenly, the mists cleared quite away, and Sara came back to
full consciousness and to the knowledge of where she was and of what
had happened.

Her first instinct, to open her eyes and speak, was checked by a
swift, unexpected movement on the part of Garth. All at once, he had
gathered her up into his arms, and, holding her face pressed close
against his own, was pouring into her ears a torrent of burning,
passionate words of love--love triumphant, worshipping, agonizing, and
last of all, brokenly, desperately abandoning all right or claim.

"And I've got to live without you . . . die without you . . . My God,
it's hard!"

In the darkness and solitude of the night--as he believed, alone with
the unconscious form of the woman he loved in his arms--Garth bared
his very soul. There was nothing hidden any longer, and Sara knew at
last that even as she herself loved, so was she loved again.

Sara stirred a little and opened her eyes. Deep within herself she was
ashamed of those brief moments of assumed unconsciousness--those
moments which had shown her a strong man's soul stripped naked of all
pride and subterfuge--his heart and soul as he alone knew them.

Since, for some reason, he himself would never have drawn aside the
veil and let her know the truth, she was glad--glad that she had
peered unbidden through the rent which the stress of the moment had
torn in his iron self-command and reticence. Just as she had revealed
herself to him on the island, in a moment of equal strain, so he had
now revealed himself to her, and they were quits.

"I'm all right," she announced, struggling into a sitting position.
"I'm not hurt."

"Sit still a minute, while I fetch you some brandy from the car."
Garth spoke in a curiously controlled voice.

He was back again in a moment, and the raw spirit made her catch her
breath as it trickled down her throat.

"Thank God we had only just begun to move," he said. "Otherwise you
must have been half-killed."

"What happened?" she asked curiously. "How did I fall out?"

"The door came open. That damned fool, Judson, didn't shut it
properly. Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Quite sure. My head aches rather."

"That's very probable. You were stunned for a minute or two."

Suddenly the recollection of their errand returned to her.

"Molly! Good Heavens, how much time have we wasted? How long has this
silly business taken?" she demanded, in a frenzy of apprehension.

Garth surveyed her oddly in the glow of one of the car's side-lights,
which he had carried back with him when he fetched the brandy.

"Five minutes, I should think," he said, adding under his breath: "Or
half eternity!"

"Five minutes! Is that all? Then do let's hurry on."

She took a few steps in the direction of the car, then stopped and
wavered. She felt curiously shaky, and her legs seemed as though they
did not belong to her.

In a moment Garth was at her side, and had lifted her up in his arms.
He carried her swiftly across the few yards that intervened between
them and the car, and settled her gently into her seat.

"Do you feel fit to go on?" he asked.

"Of course I do. We must--bring Molly back." Even her voice refused to
obey the dictates of her brain, and quavered weakly.

He restarted the car, and, taking his seat once more at the wheel,
drove on at a smooth and easy pace.

Sara leaned back in silence at his side, conscious of a feeling of
utter lassitude. In spite of her anxiety about Molly, a curious
contentment had stolen over her. The long strain of the past weeks had
ended--ended in the knowledge that Garth loved her, and nothing else
seemed to matter very much. Moreover, she was physically exhausted.
Her fall had shaken her badly, and she wanted nothing better than to
lie back quietly against the padded cushions of the car, lulled by the
rhythmic throb of the engine, and glide on through the night
indefinitely, knowing that Garth was there, close to her, all the
time.

Presently her quiet, even breathing told that she slept, and Garth,
stooping over her to make sure, accelerated the speed, and soon the
car shot forward through the darkness at a pace which none but a
driver very certain of his skill would have dared to attempt.

When, an hour later, Sara awoke, she felt amazingly refreshed. Only a
slight headache remained to remind her of her recent accident.

"Where are we?" she asked eagerly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Feeling better?" queried Garth, reassured by the stronger note in her
voice.

"Quite all right, thanks. But tell me where we are?"

"Nearly at our journey's end, I take it," he replied grimly, suddenly
slackening speed. "There's a stationary car ahead there on the left,
do you see? That will be our friends, I expect, held up by petrol
shortage, thanks to Jim Brady."

Sara peered ahead, and on the edge of the broad ribbon of light that
stretched in front of them she could discern a big car, drawn up to
one side of the road, its headlights shut off, its side-lights
glimmering warningly against its dark bulk.

Exactly as they drew level with it, Garth pulled up to a standstill.
Then a muttered curse escaped him, and simultaneously Sara gave vent
to an exclamation of dismay. The car was empty.

Garth sprang out and flashed a lamp over the derelict.

"Yes," he said, "that's Kent's car right enough."

Sara's heart sank.

"What can have become of them?" she exclaimed. She glanced round her
as though she half suspected that Kent and Molly might be hiding by
the roadside.

Meanwhile Garth had peered into the tank and was examining the petrol
cans stowed away in the back of the deserted car.

"Run dry!" he announced, coming back to his own car. "That's what has
happened."

"And what can we do now?" asked Sara despondently.

He laughed a little.

"Faint heart!" he chided. "What can we do now? Why, ask ourselves what
Kent would naturally have done when he found himself landed high and
dry?"

"I don't know what he could do--in the middle of nowhere?" she
answered doubtfully.

"Only we don't happen to be in the middle of nowhere! We're just about
a couple of miles from a market town where abides a nice little inn
whence petrol can be obtained. Kent and Miss Molly have doubtless
trudged there on foot, and wakened up mine host, and they'll hire a
trap and drive back with a fresh supply of oil. By Jove!"--with a grim
laugh--"How Kent must have cursed when he discovered the trick Brady
played on him!"

Ten minutes later, leaving their car outside, Garth and Sara walked
boldly up to the inn of which he had spoken. The door stood open, and
a light was burning in the coffee-room. Evidently some one had just
arrived.

Garth glanced into the room, then, standing back, he motioned Sara to
enter.

Sara stepped quickly over the threshold and then paused, swept by an
infinite compassion and tenderness almost maternal in its solicitude.

Molly was sitting hunched up in a chair, her face half hidden against
her arm, every drooping line of her slight young figure bespeaking
weariness. She had taken off her hat and tossed it on to the table,
and now she had dropped into a brief, uneasy slumber born of sheer
fatigue and excitement.

"Molly!"

At the sound of Sara's voice she opened big, startled eyes and stared
incredulously.

Sara moved swiftly to her.

"Molly dear," she said, "I've come to take you home."

At that Molly started up, broad awake in an instant.

"You? How did you come here?" she stammered. Then, realization waking
in her eyes: "But I'm not coming back with you. We've only stopped for
petrol. Lester's outside, somewhere, seeing about it now. We're
driving back to the car."

"Yes, I know. But you're not going on with Mr. Kent"--very gently--
"you're coming home with us."

Molly drew herself up, flaring passionate young defiance, talking
glibly of love, and marriage, and living her own life--all the
beautiful, romantic nonsense that comes so readily to the soft lips of
youth, the beckoning rose and gold of sunrise--and of mirage--which is
all youth's untrained eyes can see.

Sara was getting desperate. The time was flying. At any moment Kent
might return. Garth signaled to her from the doorway.

"You must tell her," he said gruffly. "If Kent returns before we go,
we shall have a scene. Get her away quick."

Sara nodded. Then she came back to Molly's side.

"My dear," she said pitifully. "You can never marry Lester Kent,
because--because he has a wife already."

"I don't believe it!" The swift denial leaped from Molly's lips.

But she did believe it, nevertheless. No one who knew Sara could have
looked into her eyes at that moment and doubted that she was speaking
not only what she believed to be, but what she knew to be, the ugly
truth.

Suddenly Molly crumpled up. As, between them, Garth and Sara hurried
her away to the car, there was no longer anything of the regal young
goddess about her. She was just a child--a tired, frightened child
whose eyes had been suddenly opened to the quicksands whereon her feet
were set, and, like a child, she turned instinctively and clung to the
dear, familiar people from home, who were mercifully at hand to shield
her when her whole world had suddenly grown new and strange and very
terrible. . . .

On, on through the night roared the big car, with Garth bending low
over the wheel in front, while, in the back-seat Molly huddled
forlornly into the curve of Sara's arm.

A few questions had elicited the whole foolish story of Lester Kent's
infatuation, and of the steps he had taken to enmesh poor simple-
hearted Molly in the toils--first, by lending her money, then, when he
found that the loan had scared her, by buying her pictures and
surrounding her with an atmosphere of adulation which momentarily
blinded her from forming any genuine estimate either of the value of
his criticism or of the sincerity of his desire to purchase.

Once the head resting against Sara's shoulder was lifted, and a
wistfully incredulous voice asked, very low--

"You are sure he is married, Sara,--quite sure?"

"Quite sure, Molly," came the answer.

And later, as they were nearing home, Molly's hardly-bought philosophy
of life revealed itself in the brief comment: "It's very easy to make
a fool of oneself."

"Probably Mr. Kent has found that out--by this time," replied Sara
with a grim flash of humour.

A faint, involuntary chuckle in response premised that ultimately
Molly might be able to take a less despondent view of the night's
proceedings.

It was between two and three in the morning when at length the
travelers climbed stiffly out of the car at the gateway of Sunnyside
and made their way up the little tiled path that led to the front
door. The latter opened noiselessly at their approach and Jane, who
had evidently been watching for them, stood on the threshold.

Her small, beady eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness--and with the
slow, difficult tears that now and again had overflowed as hour after
hour crawled by, bringing no sign of the wanderers' return--and the
shadows of fatigue that had hollowed her weather-beaten cheeks wrung a
sympathetic pang from Sara's heart as she realized what those long,
inactive hours of helpless anxiety must have meant to the faithful
soul.

"My lamb! . . . Oh! Miss Molly dear, they've brought 'ee back!"
Impulsively she caught hold of Garth's coat-sleeve. "Thank God you've
brought them back, sir, and now there's none as need ever know aught
but that they've been in their beds all the blessed night!" Her lips
were shaking, drawn down at the corners like those of a distressed
child, but her harsh old voice quivered triumphantly.

A very kindly gleam showed itself in Garth's dark face as he patted
the rough, red hand that clutched his coat-sleeve.

"Yes, I've brought them back safely," he said. "Put them to bed, Jane.
Miss Sara's fallen out of the car and Miss Molly has tumbled out of
heaven, so they're both feeling pretty sore."

But Sara's soreness was far the easier to bear, since it was purely
physical. As she lay in bed, at last, utterly weary and exhausted, the
recollection of all the horror and anxiety that had followed upon the
discovery of Molly's flight fell away from her, and she was only
conscious that had it not been for that wild night-ride which Molly's
danger had compelled, she would never have known that Garth loved her.

So, out of evil, had come good; out of black darkness had been born
the exquisite clear shining of the dawn.

Sara laid down her pen and very soberly re-read the letter she had
just written. It was to Tim Durward, telling him the engagement
between them must be at an end, and its accomplishment had been a
matter of sore embarrassment and mental struggle. Sara hated giving
pain, and she knew that this letter, taking from Tim all--and it was
so painfully little--that she had ever given him, must bring very
bitter pain to the man to whom, as friend and comrade, she was deeply
attached.

It was barely a month since she had promised to marry him, and it was
a difficult, ungracious task, and very open to misapprehension, to
write and rescind that promise.

Yet it was characteristic of Sara that no other alternative presented
itself to her. Now that she was sure Garth cared for her--whether
their mutual love must remain for ever unfulfilled, unconsummated, or
not--she knew that she could never give herself to any other man.

She folded and sealed the letter, and then sat quietly contemplating
the consequences that it might entail. Almost inevitably it would mean
a complete estrangement from the Durwards. Elisabeth would be very
unlikely ever to forgive her for her treatment of Tim; even kindly
hearted Major Durward could not but feel sore about it; and since
Garth had not asked her to marry him--and showed no disposition to do
any such thing--they would almost certainly fail to understand or
sympathize with her point of view.

Sara sighed as she dropped her missive into the letter-box. It meant
an end to the pleasant and delightful friendship which had come into
her life just at the time when Patrick Lovell's death had left it very
empty and desolate.

Two days of suspense ensued while she restlessly awaited Tim's reply.
Then, on the third day, he came himself, his eyes incredulous, his
face showing traces of the white night her letter had cost him.

He was very gentle with her. There was no bitterness or upbraiding,
and he suffered her explanation with a grave patience that hurt her
more than any reproaches he could have uttered.

"I believed it was only I who cared, Tim," she told him. "And so I
felt free to give you what you wanted--to be your wife, if you cared
to take me, knowing I had no love to give. I thought"--she faltered a
little--"that I might as well make someone happy! But now that I
know he loves me as I love him, I couldn't marry any one else, could
I?"

"And are you going to marry him--this man you love?"

"I don't know. He has not asked me to marry him."

"Perhaps he is married already?"

Sara met his eyes frankly.

"I don't know even that."

Tim made a fierce gesture of impatience.

"Is it playing fair--to keep you in ignorance like that?" he demanded.

Sara laughed suddenly.

"Perhaps not. But somehow I don't mind. I am sure he must have a good
reason--or else"--with a flash of humour--"some silly man's reason
that won't be any obstacle at all!"

"Supposing"--Tim bent over her, his face rather white--"supposing you
find--later on--that there is some real obstacle--that he can't marry
you, would you come to me--then, Sara?"

She shook her head.

"No, Tim, not now. Don't you see, now that I know he cares for me--
everything is altered. I'm not free, now. In a way, I belong to him.
Oh! How can I explain? Even though we may never marry, there is a
faithfulness of the spirit, Tim. It's--it's the biggest part of love,
really----"

She broke off, and presently she felt Tim's hands on her shoulders.

"I think I understand, dear," he said gently. "It's just what I should
expect of you. It means the end of everything--everything that matters
for me. But--somehow--I would not have you otherwise."

He did not stay very long after that. They talked together a little,
promising each other that their friendship should still remain
unbroken and unspoilt.

"For," as Tim said, "if I cannot have the best that the world can give
--your love, Sara, I need not lose the second best--which is your
friendship."

And Sara, watching him from the window as he strode away down the
little tiled path, wondered why love comes so often bearing roses in
one hand and a sharp goad in the other.

Elisabeth was pacing restlessly up and down the broad, flagged terrace
at Barrow, impatiently awaiting Tim's return from Monkshaven.

She knew his errand there. He had scarcely needed to tell her the
contents of Sara's letter, so swiftly had she summed up the immediate
connection between the glimpse she had caught of Sara's handwriting
and the shadow on the beloved face.

She moved eagerly to meet him as she heard the soft purr of the motor
coming up the drive.

"Well?" she queried, slipping her arm through his and drawing him
towards the terrace.

Tim looked at her with troubled eyes. He could guess so exactly what
her attitude would be, and he was not going to allow even Elisabeth to
say unkind things about the woman he loved. If he could prevent it,
she should not think them.

Very gently, and with infinite tact, he told her the result of his
interview with Sara, concealing so far as might be his own
incalculable hurt.

To his relief, his mother accepted the facts with unexpected
tolerance. He could not see her expression, since her eyes veiled
themselves with down-dropped lids, but she spoke quite quietly and as
though trying to be fair in her judgment. There was no outward sign by
which her son might guess the seething torrent of anger and resentment
which had been aroused within her.

"But if, as you tell me, Sara doesn't expect to marry this man she
cares for, surely she had been unduly hasty? If he can never be
anything to her, need she set aside all thought of matrimony?"

Tim stared at his mother in some surprise. There was a superficial
worldly wisdom in the speech which he would not have anticipated.

"It seems to me rather absurd," she continued placidly. "Quixotic--the
sort of romantic 'live and die unwed' idea that is quite exploded.
Girls nowadays don't wither on their virgin stems if the man they want
doesn't happen to be in a position to marry them. They marry some one
else."

Tim felt almost shocked. From his childhood he had invested his mother
with a kind of rarefied grace of mental and moral qualities
commensurate with her physical beauty, and her enunciation of the
cynical creed of modern times staggered him. It never occurred to him
that Elisabeth was probing round in order to extract a clear idea of
Sara's attitude in the whole matter, and he forthwith proceeded
innocently to give her precisely the information she was seeking.

"Sara isn't like that, mother," he said rather shortly. "It's just the
--the crystal purity of her outlook which makes her what she is--so
absolutely straight and fearless. She sees love, and holds by what she
believes its demands to be. I wouldn't wish her any different," he
added loyally.

"Perhaps not. But if--supposing the man proves to have a wife already?
He might be separated from her; Sara doesn't seem to know much about
him. Or he may have a wife in a lunatic asylum who is likely to live
for the next forty years. What then? Will Sara never marry if--if
there were a circumstance like that--a really insurmountable
obstacle?"

"No, I don't believe she will. I don't think she would wish to. If he
loves her and she him, spiritually they would be bound to one another
--lovers. And just the circumstance of his being tied to another woman
would make no difference to Sara's point of view. She goes beyond
material things--or the mere physical side of love."

"Then there is no chance for you unless Sara learns to unlove this
man?"

Tim regarded her with faint amusement.

"Mother, do you think you could learn to unlove me--or my father?"

She laughed a little.

"You have me there, Tim," she acknowledged. "But--hesitating a little
--"Sara knows so little of the man, apparently, that she may have
formed a mistaken estimate of his character. Perhaps he is not really
the--the ideal individual she has pictured him."

Tim smiled.

"You are a very transparent person, mother mine," he said indulgently.
"But I'm afraid your hopes of finding that the idol has feet of clay
are predestined to disappointment."

"Have you met the man?" asked Elisabeth sharply.

"I do not even know his name. But I should imagine him a man of big,
fine qualities."

"Since you don't know him, you can hardly pronounce an opinion."

A whimsical smile, touched with sadness, flitted across Tim's face.

"I know Sara," was all he said.

"Sara is given to idealizing the people she cares for," rejoined
Elisabeth.

She spoke quietly, but her expression was curiously intent. It was as
though she were gathering together her forces, concentrating them
towards some definite purpose, veiled in the inscrutable depths of
those strange eyes of hers.

"I find it difficult to forgive her," she said at last.

"That's not like you, mother."

"It is--just like me," she responded, a tone of half-tender mockery in
her voice. "Naturally I find it difficult to forgive the woman who has
hurt my son."

Tim answered her out of the fullness of the queer new wisdom with
which love had endowed him.

"A man would rather be hurt by the woman he loves than humoured by the
woman he doesn't love," he said quietly.

And Elisabeth, understanding, held her peace.

She had been very controlled, very wise and circumspect in her dealing
with Tim, conscious of raw-edged nerves that would bear but the
lightest of handling. But it was another woman altogether who, half-
an-hour later, faced Geoffrey Durward in the seclusion of his study.

The two moving factors in Elisabeth's life had been, primarily, her
love for her husband, and, later on, her love for Tim, and into this
later love was woven all the passionately protective instinct of the
maternal element. She was the type of woman who would have plucked the
feathers from an archangel's wing if she thought they would contribute
to her son's happiness; and now, realizing that the latter was
threatened by the fact that his love for Sara had failed to elicit a
responsive fire, she felt bitterly resentful and indignant.

"I tell you, Geoffrey," she declared in low, forceful tones, "she
shall marry Tim--she shall! I will not have his beautiful young
life marred and spoilt by the caprices of any woman."

Major Durward looked disturbed.

"My dear, I shouldn't call Sara in the least a capricious woman. She
knows her own heart--"

"So does Tim!" broke in Elisabeth. "And, if I can compass it, he shall
have his heart's desire."

Her husband shook his head.

"You cannot force the issue, my dear."

"Can I not? There's little a woman cannot do for husband or child! I
tell you, Geoffrey--for you, or for Tim, to give you pleasure, to buy
you happiness, I would sacrifice anybody in the world!"

She stood in front of him, her beautiful eyes glowing, and her voice
was all shaken and a-thrill with the tumult of emotion that had
gripped her. There was something about her which suggested a tigress
on the defensive--at bay, shielding her young.

"You don't know me, Geoffrey," she said very slowly. "No man knows a
woman, really--not all her thoughts." And had Major Durward, honest
fellow, realized the volcanic force of passion hidden behind the tense
inscrutability of his wife's lovely face, he would have been utterly
confounded. We do not plumb the deepest depths even of those who are
closest to us.

Civilisation had indeed forced the turgid river to run within the
narrow channels hewn by established custom, but, released from the
bondage of convention, the soul of Elisabeth Durward was that of sheer
primitive woman, and the pivot of all her actions her love for her
mate and for the man-child she had borne him.

Once, years ago, she had sacrificed justice, and honour, and a man's
faith in womanhood on that same pitiless altar of love. But the story
of that sacrifice was known only to herself and one other--and that
other was not Durward.

A full week had elapsed since the night of that eventful journey in
pursuit of Molly, and from the moment when Garth had given Sara into
the safe keeping of Jane Crab till the moment when he came upon her by
the pergola at Rose Cottage, perched on the top of a ladder, engaged
in tying back the exuberance of a Crimson Rambler, they had not met.

And now, as he halted at the foot of the ladder, Sara was conscious
that her spirits had suddenly bounded up to impossible heights at the
sight of the lean, dark face upturned to her.

"The Lavender Lady and Miles are pottering about in the greenhouse,"
she announced explanatorily, waving her hand in the direction of a
distant glimmer of glass beyond the high box hedge which flanked the
rose-garden.

"Are they?" Trent, thus arrested in the progress of his search for his
host and hostess, seemed entirely indifferent as to whether it were
ever completed or not. He leaned against one of the rose-wreathed
pillars of the pergola and gazed negligently in the direction Sara
indicated.

"How is Miss Molly?" he asked.

Sara twinkled.

"She is just beginning to discard sackcloth and ashes for something
more becoming," she informed him gravely.

"That's good. Are you--are you all right after your tumble? I'm making
these kind inquiries because, since it was my car out of which you
elected to fall, I feel a sense of responsibility."

Sara descended from the ladder before she replied. Then she remarked
composedly--

"It has taken precisely seven days, apparently, for that sense of
responsibility to develop."

"On the contrary, for seven days my thirst for knowledge has been only
restrained by the pointings of conscience."

"Then"--she spoke rather low--"was it conscience pointing you--away
from Sunnyside?"

His hazel eyes flashed over her face.

"Perhaps it was--discretion," he suggested. "Looking in at shop
windows when one has an empty purse is a poor occupation--and one to
be avoided."

"Did you want to come?" she persisted gently.

Half absently he had cut off a piece of dead wood from the rose-bush
next him and was twisting it idly to and fro between his fingers. At
her words, the dead wood stem snapped suddenly in his clenched hand.
For an instant he seemed about to make some passionate rejoinder. Then
he slowly unclenched his hand and the broken twig fell to the ground.

"Haven't I made it clear to you--yet," he said slowly, "that what I
want doesn't enter into the scheme of things at all?"

The brief speech held a sense of impending finality, and, in the
silence which followed, the eyes of the man and woman met, questioned
each other desperately, and answered.

There are moments when modesty is a false quantity, and when the big
happinesses of life depend on a woman's capacity to realize this and
her courage to act upon it. To Sara, it seemed that such a moment had
come to her, and the absolute sincerity of her nature met it unafraid.

"No," she said quietly. "You have only made clear to me--what you
want, Garth. Need we--pretend to each other any longer?"

"I don't understand," he muttered.

"Don't you?" She drew a littler nearer him, and the face she lifted to
his was very white. But her eyes were shining. "That night--when I
fell from the car--I--I wasn't unconscious."

For an instant he stared at her, incredulous. Then he swung aside a
little, his hand gripping the pillar against which he had been leaning
till his knuckles showed white beneath the straining skin.

"You--weren't unconscious?" he repeated blankly.

"No--not all the time. I--heard--what you said."

He seemed to pull himself together.

"Oh, Heaven only knows what I may have said at a moment like that," he
answered carelessly, but his voice was rough and hoarse. "A man talks
wild when the woman he's with only misses death by a hair's breath."

Sara's lips upturned at the corners in a slow smile--a smile that was
neither mocking, nor tender, nor chiding, but an exquisite blending of
all three. She caught her breath quickly--Trent could hear its soft
sibilance. Then she spoke.

"Will you marry me, please, Garth?"

He drew back from her, violently, his underlip hard bitten. At last,
after a long silence--

"No!" he burst out harshly. "No! I can't!"

For an instant she was shaken. Then, buoyed up by the memory of that
night when she had lain in his arms and when the agony of the moment
had stripped him of all power to hide his love, she challenged his
denial.

"Why not?" Her voice was vibrant. "You love me!"

"Yes . . . I love you." The words seemed torn from him.

"Then why won't you marry me?"

It did not seem to her that she was doing anything unusual or
unwomanly. The man she loved had carried his burden single-handed long
enough. The time had come when for his own sake as well as for hers,
she must wring the truth from him, make him break through the silence
which had long been torturing them both. Whatever might be the
outcome, whether pain or happiness, they must share it.

"Why won't you marry me, Garth?"

The little question, almost voiceless in its intensity, clamoured
loudly at his heart.

"Don't tempt me!" he cried out hoarsely. "My God! I wonder if you know
how you are tempting me?"

She came a little closer to him, laying her hand on his arm, while her
great, sombre eyes silently entreated him.

As though the touch of her were more than he could bear, his hard-held
passion crashed suddenly through the bars his will had set about it.

He caught her in his arms, lifting her sheer off her feet against his
breast, whilst his lips crushed down upon her mouth and throat, burned
against her white, closed lids, and the hard clasp of his arms about
her was a physical pain--an exquisite agony that it was a fierce joy
to suffer.

"Then--then you do love me?" She leaned against him, breathless, her
voice unsteady, her whole slender body shaken with an answering
passion.

"Love you?" The grip of his arms about her made response. "Love you? I
love you with my soul and my body, here and through whatever comes
Hereafter. You are my earth and heaven--the whole meaning of things--"
He broke off abruptly, and she felt his arms slacken their hold and
slowly unclasp as though impelled to it by some invisible force.

"What was I saying?" The heat of passion had gone out of his voice,
leaving it suddenly flat and toneless. " 'The whole meaning of
things?' " He gave a curious little laugh. It had a strangled sound,
almost like the cry of some tortured thing. "Then things have no
meaning----"

Sara stood staring at him, bewildered and a little frightened.

"Garth, what is it?" she whispered. "What has happened?"

He turned, and, walking away from her a few paces, stood very still
with his head bent and one hand covering his eyes.

Overhead, the sunshine, filtering in through the green trellis of
leafy twigs, flaunted gay little dancing patches of gold on the path
below, as the leaves moved flickeringly in the breeze, and where the
twisted growth of a branch had left a leafless aperture, it flung a
single shaft of quivering light athwart the pergola. It gleamed like a
shining sword between the man and woman, as though dividing them one
from the other and thrusting each into the shadows that lay on either
hand.

"Garth----"

At the sound of her voice he dropped his hand to his side and came
slowly back and stood beside her. His face was almost grey, and the
tortured expression of his eyes seemed to hurt her like the stab of a
knife.

"You must try to forgive me," he said, speaking very low and rapidly.
"I had no earthly right to tell you that I cared, because--because I
can't ask you to marry me. I told you once that I had forfeited my
claim to the good things in life. That was true. And, having that
knowledge, I ought to have kept away from you--for I knew how it was
going to be with me from the first moment I saw you. I fought against
it in the beginning--tried not to love you. Afterwards, I gave in. but
I never dreamed that--you--would come to care, too. That seemed
something quite beyond the bounds of human possibility."

"Did it? I can't see why it should?"

"Can't you?" He smiled a little. "If you were a man who has lived
under a cloud for over twenty years, who has nothing in the world to
recommend him, and only a tarnished reputation as his life-work, you,
too, would have thought it inconceivable. Anyway, I did, and, thinking
that, I dared to give myself the pleasure of seeing you--of being
sometimes in your company. Perhaps"--grimly--"it was as much a torture
as a joy on occasion. . . . But still, I was near you. . . . I could
see you--touch your hand--serve you, perhaps, in any little way that
offered. That was all something--something very wonderful to come into
a life that, to all intents and purposes, was over. And I thought I
could keep myself in hand--never let you know that I cared--"

"Yes, I tried. And I failed. And now, all that remains is for me to go
away. I shall never forgive myself for having brought pain into your
life--I, who would so gladly have brought only happiness. . . . God in
Heaven!"--he whispered to himself as though the thought were almost
blinding in the promise of ecstasy it held--"To have been the one to
bring you happiness! . . ." He fell silent, his mouth wrung and
twisted with pain.

Presently her voice came to him again, softly supplicating. "I shall
never forgive you--if you go away and leave me," she added. "I can't
do without you now--now that I know you care."

"But I must go! I can't marry you--you haven't understood--"

"Haven't I?" She smiled--a small, wise, wonderful smile that began
somewhere deep in her heart and touched her lips and lingered in her
eyes.

"Tell me," she said. "Are you married, Garth?"

He started.

"Married! God forbid!"

"And if you married me, would you be wronging any one?"

"Only you yourself," he answered grimly.

"Then nothing else matters. You are free--and I'm free. And I love
you!"

She leaned towards him, her hands outheld, her mouth still touched
with that little, mystic smile. "Please--tell me all over again now
much you love me."

But no answering hands met hers. Instead, he drew away from her and
faced her, stern-lipped.

"I must make you understand," he said. "You don't know what it is that
you are asking. I've made shipwreck of my life, and I must pay the
penalty. But, by God, I'm not going to let you pay it, too! And if you
married me, you would have to pay. You would be joining your life to
that of an outcast. I can never go out into the world as other men
may. If I did"--slowly--"if I did, sooner or later I should be driven
away--thrust back into my solitude. I have nothing to offer--nothing
to give--only a life that has been cursed from the outset. Don't
misunderstand me," he went on quickly. "I'm not complaining, bidding
for your sympathy. If a man's a fool, he must be prepared to pay for
his folly--even though it means a life penalty for a moment's madness.
And I shall have to pay--to the uttermost farthing. Mine's the kind of
debt which destiny never remits." He paused; then added defiantly:
"The woman who married me would have to share in that payment--to go
out with me into the desert in which I lie, and she would have to do
this without knowing what she was paying for, or why the door of the
world is locked against me. My lips are sealed, nor shall I ever be
able to break the seal. Now do you understand why I can never ask
you, or any other woman to be my wife?"

Sara looked at him curiously; he could not read the expression of her
face.

"Have you finished?" she asked. "Is that all?"

"All? Isn't it enough?"--with a grim laugh.

"And you are letting this--this folly of your youth stand between us?"

"The world applies a harder word than folly to it!"

"I don't care anything at all about the world. What do you call it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I call it folly to ask the criminal in the dock whether he approves
the judge's verdict. He's hardly likely to!"

For a moment she was silent. Then she seemed to gather herself
together.

"Garth, do you love me?"

The words fell clearly on the still, summer air.

"Yes"--doggedly--"I love you. What then?"

"What then? Why--this! I don't care what you've done. It doesn't
matter to me whether you are an outcast or not. If you are, then I'm
willing to be an outcast with you. Oh, Garth--My Garth! I've been
begging you to marry me all afternoon, and--and----" with a broken
little laugh--"you can't keep on refusing me!"

Before her passionate faith and trust the barriers he had raised
between them came crashing down. His arms went round her, and for a
few moments they clung together and love wiped out all bitter memories
of the past and all the menace of the future.

But presently he came back to his senses. Very gently he put her from
him.

"It's not right," he stammered unsteadily. "I can't accept this from
you. Dear, you must let me go away. . . . I can't spoil your beautiful
life by joining it to mine!"

She drew his arm about her shoulders again.

"You will spoil it if you go away. Oh! Garth, you dear, foolish man!
When will you understand that love is the only thing that matters? If
you had committed all the sins in the Decalogue, I shouldn't care!
You're mine now"--jealously--"my lover. And I'm not going to be thrust
out of your life for some stupid scruple. Let the past take care of
itself. The present is ours. And--and I love you, Garth!"

It was difficult to reason coolly with her arms about him, her lips so
near his own, and his great love for her pulling at his heart. But he
made one further effort.

"If you should ever regret it, Sara?" he whispered. "I don't think I
could bear that."

She looked at him with steady eyes.

"You will not have it to bear," she said. "I shall never regret it."

Still he hesitated. But the dawn of a great hope grew and deepened in
his face.

"If you could be content to live here--at Far End . . . It is just
possible!" He spoke reflectively, as though debating the matter with
himself. "The curse has not followed me to this quiet little corner of
the earth. Perhaps--after all . . . Sara, could you stand such a life?
Or would you always be longing to get out into the great world? As
I've told you, the world is shut to me. There's that in my past which
blocks the way to any future. Have you the faith--the courage--to
face that?"

Her eyes, steadfast and serene, met his.

"I have courage to face anything--with you, Garth. But I haven't
courage to face living without you."

He bent his head and kissed her on the mouth--a slow, lingering kiss
that held something far deeper and more enduring than mere passion.
And Sara, as she kissed him back, her soul upon her lips, felt as
though together they had partaken of love's holy sacrament.

"Beloved"--Garth's voice, unspeakably tender, came to her through the
exquisite silence of the moment--"Beloved, it shall be as you wish.
Whether I am right or wrong in taking this great gift you offer me--
God knows! If I am wrong--then, please Heaven, whatever punishment
there be may fall on me alone."

The summer, of all seasons of the year, is very surely the perfect
time for lovers, and to Sara the days that followed immediately upon
her engagement to Garth Trent were days of unalloyed happiness.

These were wonderful hours which they passed together, strolling
through the summer-foliaged woods, or lazing on the sun-baked sands,
or, perhaps, roaming the range of undulating cliffs that stretched
away to the west from the headland where Far End stood guard.

During those hours of intimate companionship, Sara began to learn the
hidden deeps of Garth's nature, discovering the almost romantic
delicacy of thought that underlay his harsh exterior.

"You're more than half a poet, my Garth!" she told him one day.

"A transcendental fool, in other words," he amended, smiling. "Well"--
looking at her oddly--"perhaps you're right. But it's too late to
improve me any. As the twig is bent, so the tree grows, you know."

"I don't want to improve you," Sara assured him promptly. "I shouldn't
like you to be in the least bit different from what you are. It
wouldn't be my Garth, then, at all."

So they would sit together and talk the foolish, charming nonsense
that all lovers have talked since the days of Adam and Eve, whilst
from above, the sun shone down and blessed them, and the waves,
lapping peacefully on the shore, murmured an obbligato to their
love-making.

Looking backward, in the bitter months that followed when her
individual happiness had been caught away from her in a whirlwind of
calamity, and when the whole world was reeling under the red storm of
war, Sara could always remember the utter, satisfying peace of those
golden days of early July--an innocent, unthinking peace that neither
she nor the world would ever quite regain. Afterwards, memory would
always have her scarred and bitter place at the back of things.

Sara found no hardship now in receiving the congratulations of her
friends--and they fell about her like rain--while in the long,
intimate talks she had with Garth the fact that he would never speak
of the past weighed with her not at all. She guessed that long ago he
had been guilty of some mad, boyish escapade which, with his
exaggerated sense of honour and the delicate idealism that she had
learned to know as an intrinsic part of his temperamental make-up, he
had magnified into a cardinal sin. And she was content to leave it at
that and to accept the present, gathering up with both hands the
happiness it held.

She had written to Elisabeth, telling her of her engagement, and, to
her surprise, had received the most charming and friendly letter in
return.

"Of course," wrote Elisabeth in her impulsive, flowing hand with
its heavy dashes and fly-away dots, "we cannot but wish that it
had been otherwise--that you could have learned to care for Tim--
but you know better than any one of us where your happiness lies,
and you are right to take it. And never think, Sara, that this is
going to make any difference to our friendship. I could read
between the lines of your letter that you had some such foolish
thought in your mind. So little do I mean this to make any break
between us that--as I can quite realize it would be too much to
ask that you should come to us at Barrow just now--I propose
coming down to Monkshaven. I want to meet the lucky individual who
has won my Sara. I have not been too well lately--the heat has
tried me--and Geoffrey is anxious that I should go away to the sea
for a little. So that all things seem to point to my coming to
Monkshaven. Does your primitive little village boast a hotel? Or,
if not, can you engage some decent rooms for me?"

The remainder of the letter dealt with the practical details
concerning the proposed visit, and Sara, in a little flurry of joyous
excitement, had hurried off to the Cliff Hotel and booked the best
suite of rooms it contained for Elisabeth.

On her way home she encountered Garth in the High Street, and
forthwith proceeded to acquaint him with her news.

"I've just been fixing up rooms at the 'Cliff' for a friend of mine
who is coming down here," she said, as he turned and fell into step
beside her. "A woman friend," she added hastily, seeing his brows knit
darkly.

"So much the better! But I could have done without the importation of
any friends of yours--male or female--just now. They're entirely
superfluous"--smiling.

"Well, I'm glad Mrs. Durward is coming, because--"

"Who did you say?" broke in Garth, pausing in his stride.

"Mrs. Durward--Tim's mother, you know," she explained. She had
confided to him the history of her brief engagement to Tim.

Trent resumed his walk, but more slowly; the buoyancy seemed suddenly
gone out of his step.

"Don't you think," he said, speaking in curiously measured tones,
"that, in the circumstances, it will be a little awkward Mrs.
Durward's coming here just now?"

Sara disclaimed the idea, pointing out that it was the very
completeness of Elisabeth's conception of friendship which was
bringing her to Monkshaven.

"When does she come?" asked Trent.

"On Thursday. I'm very anxious for you to meet her, Garth. She is so
thoroughly charming. I think it is splendid of her not to let my
broken engagement with Tim make any difference between us. Most
mothers would have borne a grudge for that!"

"I wonder!" he said meditatively. "It would be very unlike Elis--
unlike any woman"--he corrected himself hastily--"to give up a fixed
idea so easily."

"Well"--Sara laughed gaily. "Nowadays you can't compel a person to
marry the man she doesn't want--nor prevent her from marrying the man
she does."

"I don't know. A determined woman can do a good deal."

"But Elisabeth isn't a bit the determined type of female you're
evidently imagining," protested Sara, amused. "She is very beautiful
and essentially feminine--rather a wonderful kind of person, I think.
Wait till you see her!"

"I'm afraid," said Trent slowly, "that I shall not see your charming
friend. I have to run up to Town next week on--on business."

"Oh!" Sara's disappointment showed itself in her voice. "Can't you put
it off?"

He halted outside a tobacconist's shop. "Do you mind waiting a moment
while I go in here and get some baccy?"

He disappeared into the shop, and Sara stood gazing idly across the
street, watching a jolly little fox-terrier enjoying a small but meaty
bone he had filched from the floor of a neighbouring butcher's shop.

His placid enjoyment of the stolen feast was short-lived. A minute
later a lean and truculent Irish terrier came swaggering round the
corner, spotted the succulent morsel, and, making one leap, landed
fairly on top of the smaller dog. In an instant pandemonium arose, and
the quiet street re-echoed to the noise of canine combat.

The little fox-terrier put up a plucky fight in defence of his prior
claim to the bone of contention, but soon superior weight began to
tell, and it was evident that the Irishman was getting the better of
the fray. The fox-terrier's owner, very elegantly dressed, watched the
battle from a safe distance, wringing her hands and calling upon all
and sundry of the small crowd which had speedily collected to save her
darling from the lions.

No one, however, seemed disposed to relieve her of this office--for
the Irishman was an ugly-looking customer--when suddenly, like a
streak of light, a slim figure flashed across the road, and flung
itself into the melee, whist a vibrating voice broke across the
uproar with an imperative: "Let go, you brute!"

It was all over in a moment. Somehow Sara's small, strong hands had
separated the twisting, growling, biting heap of dog into its
component parts of fox and Irish, and she was standing with the little
fox-terrier, panting and bleeding profusely, in her arms, while one or
two of the bystanders--now that all danger was past--drove off the
Irishman.

"Oh! But how brave of you!" The owner of the fox-terrier rustled
forward. "I can't ever thank you sufficiently."

Sara turned to her, her black eyes blazing.

"Is this your dog?" she asked.

"Yes. And I'm sure"--volubly--"he would have been torn to pieces by
that great hulking brute if you hadn't separated them. I should never
have dared!"

Garth, coming out of the tobacconist's shop across the way, joined the
little knot of people just in time to hear Sara answer cuttingly, as
she put the terrier into its owner's arms--

"You've no business to have a dog if you've not got the pluck to
look after him!"

As she and Trent bent their steps homeward, Sara regaled him with the
full, true, and particular account of the dog-fight, winding up
indignantly--

"Foul women like that ought not to be allowed to take out a dog
licence. I hate people who shirk their responsibilities."

"You despise cowards?" he asked.

"More than anything on earth," she answered heartily.

He was silent a moment. Then he said reflectively--

"And yet, I suppose, a certain amount of allowance must be made for--
nerves."

"It seems to me it depends on what your duty demands of you at the
moment," she rejoined. "Nerves are a luxury. You can afford them when
it makes no difference to other people whether you're afraid or not--
but not when it does."

"And from what deeps did you draw such profound wisdom?" he asked
quizzically.

Sara laughed a little.

"I had it well rubbed into me by my Uncle Patrick," she replied. "It
was his Credo."

"And yet, I can understand any one's nerves cracking suddenly--after a
prolonged strain."

"I don't think yours would," responded Sara contentedly, with a vivid
recollection of their expedition to the island and its aftermath.

"Possibly not. But I suppose no man can be dead sure of himself--
always."

"Will you come in?" asked Sara as they paused at Sunnyside gate.

"Not to-day, I think. I had better begin to accustom myself to doing
without you, as I am going away so soon"--smiling.

"I wish you were not going," she rejoined discontentedly. "I so wanted
you and Elisabeth to meet. Must you go?"

"I'm afraid I must. And it's better that I should go, on the whole. I
should only be raging up and down like an untied devil because Mrs.
Durward was taking up so much of your time! Let her have you to
herself for a few days--and then, when I come back, I shall have you
to myself again."

Elisabeth frowned a little as she perused the letter which she had
that morning received from Sara. It contained the information that
rooms in her name had been booked at the Cliff Hotel, and further,
that Sara was much disappointed that it would be impossible to arrange
for her to meet Garth Trent, as he was leaving home on the Wednesday
prior to her arrival.

Trent's departure was the last thing Elisabeth desired. Above all
things, she wanted to meet the man whom she regarded as the stumbling-
block in the path of her son, for if it were possible that anything
might yet be done to further the desire of Tim's heart, it could only
be if Elisabeth, as the dea ex machina, were acquainted with all the
pieces in the game.

She must know what manner of man it was who had succeeded in winning
Sara's heart before she could hope to combat his influence, and, if
the feet of clay were there, she must see them herself before she
could point them out to Sara's love-illusioned eyes. Should she fail
of making Trent's acquaintance, she would be fighting in the dark.

Elisabeth pondered the matter for some time. Finally, she dispatched a
telegram, prepaying a reply, to the proprietor of the Cliff Hotel, and
a few hours later she announced to her husband that she proposed
antedating her visit to Monkshaven by three days.

"I shall go down the day after to-morrow--on Monday," she said.

"Then I'd better send a wire to Sara," suggested Geoffrey.

"No, don't do that. I intend taking her by surprise." Elisabeth smiled
and dimpled like a child in the possession of a secret. "I shall go
down there just in time for dinner, and write to Sara the same
evening."

Major Durward laughed with indulgent amusement.

"What an absurd lady you are still, Beth!" he exclaimed, his honest
face beaming adoration. "No one would take you to be the mother of a
grown-up son!"

"Wouldn't they?" For a moment Elisabeth's eyes--veiled, enigmatical as
ever--rested on Tim's distant figure, where he stood deep in the
discussion of some knotty point with the head gardener. Then they came
back to her husband's face, and she laughed lightly. "Everybody
doesn't see me through the rose-coloured spectacles that you do,
dearest."

"There are no 'rose-coloured spectacles' about it," protested Geoffrey
energetically. "No one on earth would take you for a day more than
thirty--if it weren't for the solid fact of Tim's six feet of bone and
muscle!"

Elisabeth jumped up and kissed her husband impulsively.

"Geoffrey, you're a great dear," she declared warmly. "Now I must run
off and tell Fanchette to pack my things."

So it came about that on the following Tuesday, Sara, to her
astonishment and delight, received a letter from Elisabeth announcing
her arrival at the Cliff Hotel.

"Why, Elisabeth is already here!" she exclaimed, addressing the family
at Sunnyside collectively. "She came last night."

Selwyn looked up from his correspondence with a kindly smile.

"That's good. You will be able, after all, to bring off the projected
meeting between Mrs. Durward and your hermit--who, by the way, seems
to have deserted his shell nowadays," he added, twinkling.

And Sara, blissfully unaware that in this instance Elisabeth had
abrogated to herself the rights of destiny, responded smilingly--

Half an hour later she presented herself at the Cliff Hotel, and was
conducted upstairs to Mrs. Durward's sitting-room on the first floor.

Elisabeth welcomed her with all her wonted charm and sweetness. There
was a shade of gravity in her manner as she spoke of Sara's
engagement, but no hint of annoyance. She dwelt solely on Tim's
disappointment and her own, exhibiting no bitterness, but only a
rather wistful regret that another had succeeded where Tim had failed.

"And now," she said, drawing Sara out on to the balcony, where she had
been sitting prior to the latter's arrival, "and now, tell me about
the lucky man."

Sara found it a little difficult to describe the man she loved to the
mother of the man she didn't love, but finally, by dint of skilful
questioning, Elisabeth elicited the information she sought.

"Forty-three!" she exclaimed, as Sara vouchsafed his age. "But that's
much too old for you, my dear!"

Sara shook her head.

"Not a bit," she smiled back.

"It seems so to me," persisted Elisabeth, regarding her with judicial
eyes. "Somehow you convey such an impression of youth. You always
remind me of spring. You are so slim and straight and vital--like a
young sapling. However, perhaps Mr. Trent also has the faculty of
youth. Youth isn't a matter of years, after all," she added
contemplatively.

"Now go on," she commanded, after a moment. "Tell me what he looks
like."

Sara laughed and plunged into a description of Garth's personal
appearance.

"And he's got queer eyes--tawny-coloured like a dog's," she wound up,
"with a quaint little patch of blue close to each of the pupils."

Elisabeth leaned forward, and beneath the soft laces of her gown the
rise and fall of her breast quickened perceptibly.

"Patches of blue?" she repeated.

"Yes--it sounds as though the colours had run, doesn't it?" pursued
Sara, laughing a little. "But it's really rather effective."

"And did you say his name was Trent--Garth Trent?" asked Elisabeth.
She had gone a little grey about the mouth, and she moistened her lips
with her tongue before speaking. There was a tone of incredulity in
her voice.

"Yes. It's not a beautiful name, is it?" smiled Sara.

"It's rather a curious one," agreed Elisabeth with an effort. "I'm
really quite longing to meet this odd man with the patchwork eyes and
the funny name."

"You shall see him to-day," Sara promised. "Audrey Maynard is giving a
picnic in Haven Woods, and Garth will be there. You will come with us,
won't you?"

"I think I must," replied Elisabeth. "Although"--negligently--"picnics
are not much in my line."

"Oh, Audrey's picnics aren't like other people's," rejoined Sara
reassuringly. "She runs them just as she runs everything else, on
lines of combined perfection and informality! The lunch will be the
production of a French chef, and the company a few carefully selected
intimates."

"Have you ever met any one who 'objected' to you yet?" she asked with
some amusement.

Elisabeth made no answer. Instead, she pointed to the Monk's Cliff,
where the grey stone of Far End gleamed in the sunlight against its
dark background of trees.

"Who lives there?" she asked. Sara's eyes followed the direction of
her hand, and she smiled.

"I'm going to live there," she answered. "That's Garth's home."

"Oh-h!" Elisabeth drew a quick breath. "It's a grim-looking place,"
she added, after a moment. "Rather lonely, I should imagine."

"Garth is fond of solitude," replied Sara simply, and she missed the
swift, searching glance instantly leveled at her by the hyacinth eyes.

When at length she took her departure, it was with a promise to return
later on with Molly and Dr. Selwyn, so that they could all four walk
out to Haven Woods together--since the doctor had undertaken to get
through his morning's rounds in time to join the picnicking party.

Elisabeth accompanied her visitor to the head of the stairs, and then,
returning to her room, stepped out on to the balcony once more. For a
long time she stood leaning against the balustrade, gazing
thoughtfully across the bay to that lonely house on the slope of the
cliff.

"Garth Trent!" she murmured. "Trent! . . . And eyes with patches of
blue in them! . . . Heavens! Can it possibly be? Can it be?"

There was a curious quality in her voice, a blending of incredulity
and distaste, and yet something that savoured of satisfaction--almost
of triumph.

Across her mental vision flitted a memory of just such eyes--gay,
laughing, love-lit eyes, out of which the laughter had been suddenly
dashed.

It was a merry party which had gathered together in the shady heart of
Haven Woods. The Selwyns, Sara and Elisabeth, Miles Herrick and the
Lavender Lady were all there, and, in addition, there was a large and
light-hearted contingent from Greenacres, where Audrey was
entertaining a houseful of friends. Only Garth had not yet arrived.

Two young subalterns on leave and a couple of pretty American sisters,
all of them staying at Greenacres, were making things hum, nobly
seconded in their efforts by Miles Herrick, who had practically
recovered from his sprained ankle and one of whose "good days" it
chanced to be.

Every one seemed bubbling over with good-humour and high spirits, so
that the dell re-echoed to the shouts of jolly laughter, while the
birds, flitting nervously hither and thither, wondered what manner of
creatures these were who had invaded their quiet sanctuary of the
woods. And presently, when the whole party gathered round the white
cloth, spread with every dainty that the inspired mind of Audrey's
chef had been able to devise, and the popping corks began to punctuate
the babble of chattering voices, they took wing and fled
incontinently. They had heard similar sharp, explosive sounds before,
and had noted them as being generally the harbingers of sudden death.

"Where's that wretched hermit of yours, Sara?" demanded Audrey gaily.
"I told him we should lunch at one, and it's already a quarter-past.
Ah!"--catching sight of a lean, supple figure advancing between the
trees--"Here he is at last!"

A shout greeted Garth's approach, and the uproarious quartette
composed of the two subalterns and the girls from New York City
pounded joyously with their forks upon their plates, creating a
perfect pandemonium of noise, Miles recklessly participating in the
clamorous welcome, while the Lavender Lady fluttered her handkerchief,
and Sara and Audrey both hurried forward to meet the late comer. In
the general excitement nobody chanced to observe the effect which
Trent's appearance had had upon one of the party.

Elisabeth had half-risen from the grassy bank on which she had been
sitting, and her face was suddenly milk-white. Even her lips had lost
their soft rose-colour, and were parted as if an exclamation of some
kind had been only checked from passing them by sheer force of will.

Out of her white face, her eyes, seeming so dark that they were almost
violet, stared fixedly at Garth as he approached. Their expression was
as masked, as enigmatical as ever, yet back of it there gleamed an odd
light, and it was as though some curious menace lay hidden in its
quiet, slumbrous fire.

The little group composed of Audrey, Sara, and Garth had joined the
main party now, and Garth was shaking eager, outstretched hands and
laughingly tossing back the shower of chaff which greeted his tardy
arrival.

Then Sara, laying her hand on his arm, steered him towards Elisabeth.
Some one who had been standing a little in front of the latter,
screening her from Trent's view, moved aside as they approached.

"Garth, let me introduce you to Mrs. Durward."

The smile that would naturally have accompanied the words was arrested
ere it dawned, and involuntarily Sara drew back before the instant,
startling change in Garth's face. It had grown suddenly ashen, and his
eyes were like those of a man who, walking in some pleasant place,
finds all at once, that a bottomless abyss has opened at his feet.

For a full moment he and Elisabeth stared at each other in a silence
so vital, so pregnant with some terrible significance, that it
impacted upon the whole prevailing atmosphere of care-free jollity.

A sudden muteness descended on the party, the laughing voices trailing
off into affrighted silence, and in the dumb stillness that followed
Sara was vibrantly conscious of the hostile clash of wills between the
man and woman who had, in a single instant, become the central figures
of the little group.

"Mr.--Trent"--she hesitated delicately before the name--"and I have
met before."

And quite deliberately, with a proud, inflexible dignity, she turned
her back upon him and moved away.

Sara never forgot the few moments that followed. She felt as though
she were on the brink of some crisis in her life which had been slowly
drawing nearer and nearer to her and was now acutely imminent, and
instinctively she sought to gather all her energies together to meet
it. What it might be she could not guess, but she was sure that this
declared enmity between the man she loved and the woman who was her
friend preluded some menace to her happiness.

Her eyes sought Garth's in horror-stricken interrogation.

"What is it? What does she mean?" she demanded swiftly, in a
breathless undertone, instinctively drawing aside from the rest of the
party.

He laughed shortly.

"She means mischief, probably," he replied. "Mrs. Durward is no friend
of mine."

Sara's eyes blazed.

"She shall explain," she exclaimed impetuously, and she swung aside,
meaning to follow Elisabeth and demand an explanation of the insult.
But Garth checked her.

"No," he said decidedly. "Please do nothing--say nothing. For Audrey's
sake we can't have a scene--here."

"But it's unpardonable----"

"Do as I say," he insisted. "Believe me, you will only make things
worse if you interfere. I will make my apologies to Audrey and go. For
my sake, Sara"--he looked at her intently--"go back and face it out.
Behave as if nothing had happened."

Compelled, in spite of herself, by his insistence, Sara reluctantly
assented and, leaving him, made her way slowly back to the others.

A disjointed buzz of talk sprayed up against her ears. Every one
rushed into conversation, making valiant, if quite fruitless efforts
to behave as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while, a
little apart from the main group, Elisabeth stood alone.

Meanwhile Trent sought out his hostess, and together they moved away,
pausing at last beneath the canopy of trees.

"No words can quite meet what has just occurred," he said formally. "I
can only express my regret that my presence here should have
occasioned such a contretemps."

Although the whole brief scene had been utterly incomprehensible to
her, Audrey intuitively sensed the bitter hurt underlying the harshly
spoken words, and the outraged hostess was instantly submerged in the
friend.

"I am so sorry about it, Garth," she said gently, "although, of
course, I don't understand Mrs. Durward's behaviour."

"That is very kind of you!" he replied, his voice softening. "But
please do not visit your very natural indignation upon Mrs. Durward. I
alone am to blame, I ought never to have renounced my role of hermit.
Unfortunately"--with a brief smile of such sadness that Audrey felt
her heart go out to him in a sudden rush of sympathy--"my mere
presence is an abuse of my friends' hospitality."

"No, no!" she exclaimed quickly. "We are all glad to have you with us
--we were so pleased when--when at last you came out of your shell,
Garth"--with a faint smile.

"Still the fact remains that I am outside the social pale. I had no
business to thrust myself in amongst you. However--after this--you may
rest assured that I shan't offend again."

"I decline to rest assured of anything of the kind," asserted Audrey
with determination. "Don't be such a fool, Garth--or so unfair to your
friends. Just because you chance to have met a women who, for some
reason, chooses to cut you, doesn't alter our friendship for you in
the very least. What Mrs. Durward may have against you I don't know--
and I don't care either. I have nothing against you, and I don't
propose to give any pal of mine the go-by because some one else
happens to have quarreled with him."

Trent's eyes were curiously soft as he answered her.

"Thank you for that," he said earnestly. "All the same, I think you
will have to make up your mind to allow your--friend, as you are good
enough to call me, to go to the wall. You, and others like you,
dragged him out, but, believe me, his place is not in the centre of
the room. There are others besides Mrs. Durward who would give you the
reason why, if you care to know it."

"I don't care to know it," responded Audrey firmly. "In fact, I should
decline to recognize any reason against my calling you friend. I don't
intend to let you go, nor will Miles, you'll find."

"Ah! Herrick! He's a good chap, isn't he?" said Trent a little
wistfully.

"We all are--once you get to know us," returned Audrey, persistently
cheerful. "And Sara--Sara won't let you go either, Garth."

His sensitive, bitter mouth twisted suddenly.

"If you don't mind," he said quickly, "we won't talk about Sara. And I
won't keep you any longer from your guests. It was--just like you--to
take it as you have done, Audrey. And if, later on, you find yourself
obliged to revise your opinion of me--I shall understand. And I shall
not resent it."

"I'm not very likely to do what you suggest."

He looked at her with a curious expression on his face.

"I'm afraid it is only too probable," he rejoined simply.

He wrung her hand, and, turning, walked swiftly away through the wood,
while Audrey retraced her footsteps in the direction of the dell.

She was feeling extremely annoyed at what she considered to be Mrs.
Durward's hasty and inconsiderate action. It was unpardonable of any
one thus to spoil the harmony of the day, she reflected indignantly,
and then she looked up and met Elisabeth's misty, hyacinth eyes, full
of a gentle, appealing regret.

"Mrs. Maynard, I must beg you to try and pardon me," she said,
approaching with a charming gesture of apology. "I have no excuse to
offer except that Mr. Trent is a man I--I cannot possibly meet." She
paused and seemed to swallow with some difficulty, and of a sudden
Audrey was conscious of a thrill of totally unexpected compassion.
There was so evidently genuine pain and emotion behind the hesitating
apology.

"I am sorry you should have been distressed," she replied kindly. "It
has been a most unfortunate affair all round."

Elisabeth bestowed a grateful little smile upon her.

"If you will forgive me," she said, "I will say good-bye now. I am
sure you will understand my withdrawing."

"Oh no, you mustn't think of such a thing," cried Audrey hospitably,
though within herself she could not but acknowledge that the
suggestion was a timely one. "Please don't run away from us like
that."

"It is very kind of you, but really--if you will excuse me--I think I
would prefer not to remain. I feel somewhat bouleversee. And I am so
distressed to have been the unwitting cause of spoiling your charming
party."

Audrey hesitated.

"Of course, if you would really rather go----" she began.

"I would rather," persisted Elisabeth with a gentle inflexibility of
purpose. "Will you give a message to Sara for me?" Audrey nodded. "Ask
her to come and see me to-morrow, and tell her that--that I will
explain." Suddenly she stretched out an impulsive hand. "Oh, Mrs.
Maynard! If you knew how much I dread explaining this matter to Sara!
Perhaps, however"--her eyes took on a thoughtful expression--"Perhaps,
however, it may not be necessary--perhaps it can be avoided."

A sense of foreboding seemed to close round Audrey's heart, as she met
the gaze of the beautiful, enigmatic eyes. What was it that Elisabeth
intended to "explain" to Sara? Something connected with Garth Trent,
of course, and it was impossible, in view of the attitude Elisabeth
had assumed, to hope that it could be aught else than something to his
detriment.

"If an explanation can be avoided, Mrs. Durward," she said rather
coldly, "I think it would be much better. The least said, the soonest
mended, you know," she added, looking straight into the baffling eyes.

The two women, all at once antagonistic and suspicious of each other,
shook hands formally, and Elisabeth took her way through the woods,
while Audrey rejoined her neglected guests and used her best
endeavours to convert an entertainment that threatened to become a
failure into, at least, a qualified success. By dint of infinite tact,
and the loyal cooperation of Miles Herrick, she somehow achieved it,
and the majority of the picnickers enjoyed themselves immensely.

Only Sara felt as though a shadow had crept out from some hidden place
and cast its grey length across the path whereon she walked, while
Miles and Audrey, discerning the shadow with the clear-sighted vision
of friendship, were filled with apprehension for the woman whom they
had both learned to love.

Judson crossed the hall at Far End and, opening the front door, peered
anxiously out into the moonlit night for the third time that evening.

Neither he nor his wife could surmise what had become of their master.
He had gone away, as they knew, with the intention of joining a picnic
party in Haven Woods, but he had given no instructions that he wished
the dinner-hour postponed, and now the beautiful little dinner which
Mrs. Judson had prepared and cooked for her somewhat exigent employer
had been entirely robbed of its pristine delicacy of flavour, since it
had been "keeping hot" in the oven for at least two hours.

"Coming yet?" queried Mrs. Judson, as her husband returned to the
kitchen.

The latter shook his head.

"Not a sign of 'im," he replied briefly.

Ten minutes later, the house door opened and closed with a bang, and
Judson hastened upstairs to ascertain his master's wishes. When he
again rejoined the wife of his bosom, his face wore a look of genuine
concern.

"Something's happened," he announced solemnly. "Ten years have I been
in Mr. Trent's service, and never, Maria, never have I seen him look
as he do now."

"What's he looking like, then?" demanded Mrs. Judson, pausing with a
saucepan in her hand.

"Like a man what's been in hell," replied her husband dramatically.
"He's as white as that piece of paper"--pointing to the sheet of
cooking paper with which Mrs. Judson had been conscientiously removing
the grease from the chipped potatoes. "And his eyes look wild. He's
been walking, too--must have walked twenty miles or thereabouts, I
should think, for he seems dead beat and his boots are just a mask of
mud. His coat's torn and splashed, as well--as if he'd pushed his way
through bushes and all, without ever stopping to see where he was
going."

"He won't have any. 'Judson,' he says to me, 'bring me a whisky-and-
soda and some sandwiches. I don't want nothing else. And then you can
lock up and go to bed.' "

"Well, then, bless the man, look alive and get the whisky-and-soda and
a tray ready whiles I cut the sandwiches," exclaimed the excellent
Mrs. Judson promptly, giving her bemused spouse a push in the
direction of the pantry and herself bustling away to fetch a loaf of
bread.

"Right you are. But I was so took aback at the master's appearance,
Maria, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I wonder if his
young lady's given him his congy?" he added reflectively.

Mrs. Judson did not stay to discuss the question, but set about
preparing the sandwiches, and a few minutes later Judson carried into
Trent's own particular snuggery an attractive-looking little tray and
placed it on a table at his master's elbow.

The man had not been far out in his reckoning when he opined that his
master had walked "twenty miles or thereabouts." When he had quitted
Haven Woods, Garth had started off, heedless of the direction he took,
and, since then, he had been tramping, almost blindly, up hill and
down dale, over hedges, through woods, along the shore, stumbling
across the rocks, anywhere, anywhere in the world to get away from the
maddening, devil-ridden thoughts which had pursued him since the brief
meeting with a woman whose hyacinth eyes recalled the immeasurable
anguish of years ago and threatened the joy which the future seemed to
promise.

His face was haggard. Heavy lines had graved themselves about his
mouth, and beneath drawn brows his eyes glowed like sombre fires.

Judson paused irresolutely beside him.

"Shall I pour you out a whisky, sir?" he inquired.

Trent started. He had been oblivious of the man's entrance.

"No. I'll do it myself--presently. Lock up and go to bed," he answered
brusquely.

But Judson still hesitated. There was an expression of affectionate
solicitude on his usually wooden face.

"Better have one at once, sir," he said persuasively. "And I think
you'll find the chicken sandwiches very good, sir, if you'll excuse my
mentioning it."

For a moment a faint, kindly smile chased away the look of intense
weariness in Garth's eyes.

"You transparent old fool, Judson!" he said indulgently. "You're like
an old hen clucking round. Very well, make me a whisky, if you will,
and give me one of those superlative sandwiches."

Judson waited on him contentedly.

"Anything more to-night, sir? Shall I close the window?" with a
gesture towards the wide-open window near which his master sat.

Garth shook his head, and, when at last the manservant had reluctantly
taken his departure, he remained for a long time sitting very still,
staring out across the moon-washed garden.

Presently he stirred restlessly. Glancing round the room, his eyes
fell on his violin, lying upon the table with the bow beside it just
as he had laid it down that morning after he had been improvising, in
a fit of mad spirits, some variations on the theme of Mendelssohn's
Wedding March.

He took up the instrument and struck a few desultory chords. Then,
tucking it more closely beneath his chin, he began to play--a broken,
fitful melody of haunting sadness, tormented by despairing chords,
swept hither and thither by rushing minor cadences--the very spirit of
pain itself, wandering, ghost-like, in desert places.

Upstairs Judson turned heavily in his bed.

"Just hark to 'im, Maria," he muttered uneasily. "He fair makes my
flesh creep with that doggoned fiddle of his. 'Tis like a child crying
in the dark. I wish he'd stop."

But the sad strains still went on, rising and falling, while Garth
paced back and forth the length of the room and the candles flickered
palely in the moonlight that poured in through the open window.

Suddenly, across the lawn a figure flitted, noiseless as a shadow. It
paused once, as though listening, then glided forward again, slowly
drawing nearer and nearer until at last it halted on the threshold of
the room.

Garth, for the moment standing with his back towards the window,
continued playing, oblivious of the quiet listener. Then, all at once,
the feeling that he was no longer alone, that some one was sharing
with him the solitude of the night, invaded his consciousness. He
turned swiftly, and as his glance fell upon the silent figure standing
at the open window, he slowly drew his violin from beneath his chin
and remained staring at the apparition as though transfixed.

It was a woman who had thus intruded on his privacy. A scarf of black
lace was twisted, hood-like, about her head, and beneath its fragile
drapery was revealed the beautiful face and haunting, mysterious eyes
of Elisabeth Durward. She had flung a long black cloak over her
evening gown, and where it had fallen a little open at the throat her
neck gleamed privet-white against its shadowy darkness.

The mystical, transfiguring touch of the moon's soft light had
eliminated all signs of maturity, investing her with an amazing look
of youth, so that for an instant it seemed to Trent as though the
years had rolled back and Elisabeth Eden, in all the incomparable
beauty of her girlhood, stood before him.

He gazed at her in utter silence, and the brooding eyes returned his
gaze unflinchingly.

"Good God!"

The words burst from him at last in a low, tense whisper, and, as if
the sound broke some spell that had been holding both the man and
woman motionless, Elisabeth stepped across the threshold and came
towards him.

Trent made a swift gesture--almost, it seemed, a gesture of aversion.

"Why have you come here?" he demanded hoarsely.

She drew a little nearer, then paused, her hand resting on the table,
and looked at him with a strange, questioning expression in her eyes.

"This is a poor welcome, Maurice," she observed at last.

He winced sharply at the sound of the name by which she had addressed
him, then, recovering himself, faced her with apparent composure.

"I have no welcome for you," he said in measured tones. "Why should I
have? All that was between us two . . . ended . . . half a life-time
ago."

"No!" she cried out. "No! Not all! There is still my son's happiness
to be reckoned."

"Your son's happiness?" He stared at her amazedly. "What has your
son's happiness to do with me?"

"Everything!" she answered. "Everything! Sara Tennant is the woman he
loves."

"And have you come here to blame me for the fact that she does not
return his love?"--with an accent of ironical amusement.

"No, I don't blame you. But if it had not been for you she would have
married him. They were engaged, and then"--her voice shook a little--
"you came! You came--and robbed Tim of his happiness."

Trent smiled sarcastically.

"An instance of the grinding of the mills of God," he said lightly.
"You robbed me--you'll agree?--of something I valued. And now--
inadvertently--I have robbed you in return of your son's happiness. It
appears"--consideringly--"an unusually just dispensation of
Providence. And the sins of the parents are visited on the child, as
is the usual inscrutable custom of such dispensations."

Elisabeth seemed to disregard the bitter gibe his speech contained.
She looked at him with steady eyes.

"I want you--out of the way," she said deliberately.

"Indeed?" The indifferent, drawling tone was contradicted by the
sudden dangerous light that gleamed in the hazel eyes. "You mean you
want me--to pay--once more?"

She looked away uneasily, flushing a little.

"I'm afraid it does amount to that," she admitted.

"And how would you suggest it should be done?" he inquired composedly.

Her eyes came back to his face. There was an eager light in them, and
when she spoke the words hurried from her lips in imperative demand.

"Oh, it would be so easy, Maurice! You have only to convince Sara that
you are not fit to marry her--or any woman, for that matter! Tell her
what your reputation is--tell her why you can never show yourself
amongst your fellow men, why you live here under an assumed name. She
won't want to marry you when she knows these things, and Tim would
have his chance to win her back again."

"You mean--let me quite understand you, Elisabeth"--Trent spoke with
curious precision--"that I am to blacken myself in Sara's eyes, so
that, discovering what a wolf in sheep's clothing I am, she will break
off our engagement. That, I take it, is your suggestion?"

Beneath his searching glance she faltered a moment. Then--

"Yes," she answered boldly. "That is it."

"It's a charming programme," he commented. "But it doesn't seem to me
that you have considered Sara at all in the matter. It will hardly add
to her happiness to find that she has given her heart to--what shall
we say?"--smiling disagreeably--"to the wrong kind of man?"

"Of, of course, she will be upset, disillusionnee, for a time. She
will suffer. But then we all have our share of suffering. Sara cannot
hope to be exempt. And afterwards--afterwards"--her eyes shining--"she
will be happy. She and Tim will be happy together."

"And so you are prepared to cause all this suffering, Sara's and mine
--though I suppose"--with a bitter inflection--"that last hardly
counts with you!--in order to secure Tim's happiness?"

"Yes," significantly, "I am prepared--to do anything to secure that."

Trent stared at her in blank amazement.

"Have you no conscience?" he asked at last. "Have you never had
any?"

She looked at him a little piteously.

"You don't understand," she muttered. "You don't understand. I'm his
mother. And I want him to be happy."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am sorry," he said, "that I cannot help you. But I'm afraid Tim's
happiness isn't going to be purchased at my expense. I haven't the
least intention of blackening myself in the eyes of the woman I love
for the sake of Tim--or of twenty Tims. Please understand that, once
and for all."

He gestured as though to indicated that she should precede him to the
window by which she had entered. But she made no movement to go.
Instead she flung back her cloak as though it were stifling her, and
caught him impetuously by the arm.

"Maurice! Maurice! For God's sake, listen to me!" Her voice was
suddenly shaken with passionate entreaty. "Use some other method,
then! Break with her some other way! If you only knew how I hate to
ask you this--I who have already brought only sorrow and trouble into
your life! But Tim--my son--he must come first!" She pressed a little
closer to him, lifting her face imploringly. "Maurice, you loved me
once--for the sake of that love, grant me my boy's happiness!"

Quietly, inexorably, he disengaged himself from the eager clasp of her
hand. Her beautiful, agonized face, the vehement supplication of her
voice, moved him not a jot.

"You are making a poor argument," he said coldly. "You are making your
request in the name of a love that died three-and-twenty years ago."

"Do you mean"--she stared at him--"that you have not cared--at all--
since?" She spoke incredulously. Then, suddenly, she laughed. "And I--
what a fool I was!--I used to grieve--often--thinking how you must be
suffering!"

He smiled wryly as at some bitter memory.

"Perhaps I did," he responded shortly. "Death has its pains--even the
death of first love. My love for you died hard, Elisabeth--but it
died. You killed it."

"And you will not do what I ask for the sake of the love you--once--
gave me?" There was a desperate appeal in her low voice.

He shook his head. "No," he said, "I will not."

She made a gesture of despair.

"Then you drive me into doing what I hate to do!" she exclaimed
fiercely. She was silent for a moment, standing with bowed head, her
mouth working painfully. Then, drawing herself up, she faced him
again. There was something in the lithe, swift movement that recalled
a panther gathering itself together for its spring.

"Listen!" she said. "If you will not find some means of breaking off
your engagement with Sara, then I shall tell her the whole story--tell
her what manner of man it is she proposes to make her husband!"

There was a supreme challenge in her tones, and she waited for his
answer defiantly--her head flung back, her whole body braced, as it
were, to resistance.

In the silence that followed, Trent drew away from her--slowly,
repugnantly, as though from something monstrous and unclean.

"You wouldn't--you couldn't do such a thing!" he exclaimed in low,
appalled tones of unbelief.

"I could!" she asserted, though her face whitened and her eyes
flinched beneath his contemptuous gaze.

"But it would be a vile thing to do," he pursued, still with that
accent of incredulous abhorrence. "Doubly vile for you to do this
thing."

"Do you think I don't know that--don't realize it?" she answered
desperately. "You can say nothing that could make me think it worse
than I do already. It would be the basest action of which any woman
could be guilty. I recognize that. And yet"--she thrust her face,
pinched and strained-looking, into his--"and yet I shall do it. I'd
take that sin--or any other--on my conscience for the sake of Tim."

Trent turned away from her with a gesture of defeat, and for a moment
or two he paced silently backwards and forwards, while she watched him
with burning eyes.

"Do you realize what it means?" she went on urgently. "You have no way
out. You can't deny the truth of what I have to tell."

"No," he acknowledged harshly. "As you say, I cannot deny it. No one
knows that better than yourself."

Suddenly he turned to her, and his face was that of a man in uttermost
anguish of soul. Beads of moisture rimmed his drawn mouth, and when he
spoke his voice was husky and uneven.

"Haven't I suffered enough--paid enough?" he burst out passionately.
"You've had your pound of flesh. For God's sake, be satisfied with
that! Leave--Garth Trent--to build up what is left of his life in
peace!"

The roughened, tortured tones seemed to unnerve her. For a moment she
hid her face in her hands, shuddering, and when she raised it again
the tears were running down her cheeks.

"I can't--I can't!" she whispered brokenly. "I wish I could . . . you
were good to me once. Oh! Maurice, I'm not a bad woman, not a wicked
woman . . . but I've my son to think of . . . his happiness." She
paused, mastering, with an effort, the emotion that threatened to
engulf her. "Nothing else counts--nothing! If you go to the wall,
Tim wins."

"So I'm to pay--first for your happiness, and now, more than twenty
years later, for your son's. You don't ask--very much--of a man,
Elisabeth."

He had himself in hand now. The momentary weakness which had wrenched
that brief, anguished appeal from his lips was past, and the dry scorn
of his voice cut like a lash, stinging her into hostility once more.

"I have given you the chance to break with Sara yourself--on any
pretext you choose to invent," she said hardly. "You've refused--" She
hesitated. "You do--still refuse, Maurice?" Again the note of
pleading, of appeal in her voice. It was as though she begged of him
to spare them both the consequences of that refusal.

He bowed. "Absolutely."

She sighed impatiently.

"Then I must take the only other way that remains. You know what that
will be."

He stooped, and, picking up her cloak which had fallen to the floor,
held it for her to put on. He had completely regained his customary
indifference of manner.

"I think we need not prolong this interview, then," he said
composedly.

Elisabeth drew the cloak around her and moved slowly towards the
window. Outside, the tranquil moonlight still flooded the garden, the
peaceful quiet of the night remained all undisturbed by the fierce
conflict of human wills and passions that had spent itself so
uselessly.

"One thing more"--she paused on the threshold as Trent spoke again--
"You will not blacken the name of--"

"No!" It was as though she had struck the unuttered word from his
lips. "Did you think I should? Those who bear it have suffered enough.
There's no need to drag it through the mire a second time."

With a quick movement she drew her cloak more closely about her, and
stepped out into the garden. For a moment Garth watched her crossing
the lawns, a slender, upright, swiftly moving shadow. Then a clump of
bushes, thrusting its wall of darkness into the silver sea of
moonlight, hid her from his sight, and he turned back into the room.
Stumblingly he made his way to the chimney-piece, and, resting his
arms upon it, hid his face.

For a long time he remained thus, motionless, while the grandfather
clock in the corner ticked away indifferently, and one by one the
candles guttered down and went out in little pools of grease.

When at last he raised his face, it looked almost ghastly in the
moonlight, so lined and haggard was it, and its sternly set expression
was that of a man who had schooled himself to endure the supreme ill
that destiny may hold in store.

"Of course, there could be but one ending to it all. The man to whom
you have promised yourself--Garth Trent--was court-martialled and
cashiered."

As she finished speaking, Elisabeth's hands, which had been tightly
locked together upon her knee, relaxed and fell stiffly apart, cramped
with the intensity of their convulsive pressure.

Sara sat silent, staring with unseeing eyes across the familiar bay to
that house on the cliff where lived the man whose past history--that
history he had guarded so strenuously and completely from the ears of
their little world--had just been revealed to her.

Mentally she was envisioning the whole scene of the story which
hesitatingly--almost unwilling, it seemed--Elisabeth had poured out.
She could see the lonely fort on the Indian Frontier, sparsely held by
its indomitable little band of British soldiers, and ringed about on
every side by the hill tribes who had so suddenly and unexpectedly
risen in open rebellion. In imagination she could sense the hideous
tension as day succeeded day and each dawning brought no sign of the
longed-for relief forces. Indeed, it was not even known if the
messengers sent by the officer in command had got safely through to
the distant garrison to deliver his urgent message asking succour. And
each evening found those who were besieged within the fort with
diminished rations, and diminished hope, and with one or more dead to
mark the enemy's unceasing vigilance.

And then had come the mysterious apparent withdrawal of the tribesmen.
For hours no sign of the enemy had been seen, nor a single fugitive
shot fired when one or other of the besieged had risked themselves at
an unguarded aperture, whereas, until that morning, for a man to show
himself, even for a moment, had been to court almost certain death.

Could the rebels have received word of the approach of a relieving
force, whispers of a punitive expedition on its way, and so stolen
stealthily, discreetly away in the silence of the night?

The hearts of the little beleaguered force rose high with hope, but
again morning drew to evening without bringing sight or sound of
succour. Only the enemy persisted in that strange, unbroken silence,
and, at last, a hasty council of war was held within the fort, and
Garth Trent, together with a handful of men, had been detailed to make
a reconnaissance.

Sara could picture the little party stealing out on their dangerous
errand--dangerous, indeed, if the withdrawal of the tribesmen were but
a bluff, a scheme devised to lull the besieged into a false sense of
security in order to attack them later at a greater disadvantage. And
then--the sudden spit of a rifle, a ringing fusillade of shots in the
dense darkness! The reconnaissance party had run into an ambuscade!

Sara could guess well the frayed nerves, the low vitality of men who
were short of food, short of sleep, and worn with incessant watching
night and day. But-- Could it be possible that Englishmen had flinched
at the crucial moment--lost their nerve and fled in wild disorder?
Englishmen--who held the sacred trust of empire in their hands--to
show the white feather to a horde of rebel natives! It was
inconceivable! Sara, reared in the great tradition by that gallant
gentleman, Patrick Lovell, refused to credit it.

She drew a long, shuddering breath.

"I don't believe it," she said.

Elisabeth looked at her with a pitying comprehension of the blow she
had just dealt her.

"I'm afraid," she said gently, almost deprecatingly, "that there is no
questioning the finding of the court-martial. Garth must have lost his
head at the unexpectedness of the attack. And panic is a curious,
unaccountable kind of thing, you know."

"I don't believe it," reiterated Sara stubbornly.

Elisabeth bent forward.

"My dear," she said, "there is no possibility of doubt. Garth was
wounded; they brought him in afterwards--shot in the back! . . . Oh!
It was all a horrible business! And the most wretched part of it all
was that in reality they were only a few stray tribesmen whom our men
had encountered. Perhaps Garth thought they were outnumbered--I don't
know. But anyway, coming on the top of all that had gone before, the
surprise attack in the darkness broke his nerve completely. He didn't
even attempt to make a stand. He simply gave way. What followed was
just a headlong scramble as to who could save his skin first! I shall
never forget Garth's return after--after the court-martial." She
shuddered a little at the memory. "I--I was engaged to him at the
time, Sara, and I had no choice but to break it off. Garth was
cashiered--disgraced--done for."

Sara's drooping figure suddenly straightened.

"You--you--were engaged to Garth?" she said in a queer, high voice.

"Yes"--simply. "I had promised to marry him."

Sara was silent for a long moment. Then--

"He never told me," she muttered. "He never told me."

"No? It was hardly likely he would, was it? He couldn't tell you that
without telling you--the rest."

Sara made no answer. She felt stunned--beaten into helpless silence by
the quiet, inexorable voice that, bit by bit, minute by minute, had
drawn aside the veil of ignorance and revealed the dry bones and
rottenness that lay hidden behind it.

"I don't believe it!" she had cried in a futile effort to convince
herself by the sheer reiteration of denial. But she did believe it,
nevertheless. The whole miserable story tallied too accurately with
the bitterly significant remarks that Garth himself had let fall from
time to time.

That day of the dog-fight, for instance. What was it he had said? "A
certain amount of allowance must be made for nerves."

And again: "I suppose no man can be dead sure of himself--always."

The implication was too horribly clear to be evaded.

He had told her, moreover, that he was a man who had made a shipwreck
of his life, that in a moment of folly--a moment of funk she knew now
to be the veridical description!--he had flung away the whole chances
of his life. The man whom she had loved, and, in her love, idealized,
had proved himself, when the test came, that most despicable of
things, a coward! The pain of realization was almost unbearable.

Suddenly, across the utter desolation of the moment there shot a
single ray of hope. She turned triumphantly to Elisabeth.

"But if it were true that Garth--had shown cowardice, why was he not
shot? They shoot men for cowardice"--grimly.

"There are many excuses to be made for him, Sara," replied Elisabeth
gently.

"Excuses! For cowardice!" The low-spoken words were icy with a biting
contempt. "I'm afraid I could not find them."

"The court-martial did, nevertheless. At the trial, the 'prisoner's
friend'--in this instance, Garth's colonel, who was very fond of him
and had always thought very highly of him--pleaded extenuating
circumstances. Garth's youth, his previous good record, the conditions
of the moment--the continuous mental and physical strain of the days
preceding his sudden loss of nerve--all these things were urged by the
'prisoner's friend,' and the sentence was commuted to one of
cashiering."

"It would have been better if he had been shot," said Sara dully. Then
suddenly she clapped both hands to her mouth. "Ah--h! What am I
saying? Garth! . . . Garth! . . ."

She stumbled to her feet, her white, ravaged face turned for a moment
yearningly towards Far End, where it stood bathed in the mocking
morning sunlight. Then she spun half-round, groping for support, and
fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

When Sara came to herself again, she was lying on the bed in
Elisabeth's room at the hotel. Some one had drawn the blinds, shutting
out the crude glare of the sunlight, and in the semi-darkness she
could feel soft hands about her, bathing her face with something
fragrantly cool and refreshing. She opened her eyes and looked up to
find Elisabeth's face bent over her--unspeakably kind and tender, like
that of some Madonna brooding above her child.

"Are you feeling better?" The sweet, familiar voice roused her to the
realization of what had happened. It was the same voice that, before
unconsciousness had wrapped her in its merciful oblivion, had been
pouring into her ears an unbelievably hideous story--a nightmare tale
of what had happened at some far distant Indian outpost.

The details of the story seemed to be all jumbled confusedly together
in Sara's mind, but, as gradually full consciousness returned, they
began to sort themselves and fall into their rightful places, and all
at once, with a swift and horrible contraction of her heart, the truth
knocked at the door of memory.

She struggled up on to her elbow, her eyes frantically appealing.

"Elisabeth, was it true? Was it--all true?"

In an instant Elisabeth's hand closed round hers.

"My dear, you must try and face it. And"--her voice shook a little--
"you must try and forgive me for telling you. But I couldn't let you
marry Garth Trent in ignorance, could I?"

"Then it is true? Garth was court-martialled and--and cashiered?" Sara
sank back against her pillows. Still, deep within her, there flickered
a faint spark of hope. Against all reason, against all common sense
the faith that was within her fought against accepting the bitter
knowledge that Garth was guilty of what was in her eyes the one
unpardonable sin.

Unpardonable! The word started a new and overwhelming train of
thought. She remembered that she had told Garth she did not care what
sin he had been guilty of, had forced him to believe that nothing
could make any difference to her love for him, to her willingness to
become his wife, and share his burden. Yet now, now that the hidden
thing in his life had been revealed to her, she found herself
shrinking from it in utter loathing! Her promises of faith and loyalty
were already crumbling under the strain of her knowledge of the truth.

She flinched from the recognition of the fact, seeking miserably to
palliate and excuse it. When she had given Garth that impetuous
assurance of her confidence, she had not, in her crudest imaginings,
dreamed of anything so hideous and ignoble as the actual truth had
proved to be. Vaguely, she had deemed him outcast for some big,
reckless sin that by the splendour of its recklessness almost earned
its own forgiveness.

And instead--this! This drab-hued, pitiful weakness for which she
could find no pardon in her heart.

Through the turmoil of her thoughts she became conscious that
Elisabeth was stooping over her, answering her wild incredulous
questioning.

"Yes, it is true," she was saying steadily. "He was court-martialled
and cashiered. But, if you still doubt it, ask him yourself, Sara."

"Yes, I'll ask him myself." She panted a little. "You must be wrong--
there must be some horrible mistake somewhere. I've been mad--mad to
believe it for a single moment." She slipped from the bed to her feet,
and stood confronting Elisabeth with a kind of desperate defiance. "Do
you hear what I say?" she said loudly. "I don't believe it. I will
never believe it till Garth himself tells me that it is true."

"Oh, my dear"--Elisabeth shrank away a little, but her eyes were kind
and infinitely pitying. Sara felt frightened of the pitying kindness
in those eyes--its rejection of Garth's innocence was so much stronger
than any asseveration of mere words. Vaguely she heard Elisabeth's
patient voice: "I think you are right. Ask him yourself--but, Sara, he
will not be able to deny it."

The brusque, curt speech sounded a knell to the faint hope which Sara
had been tending whilst she waited for Garth's coming. His voice, the
dogged expression of his face, the chill, brief manner, each held its
grievous message for the woman who had learned to recognize the signs
of mental stress in the man she loved.

"Yes, I sent for you," she said. "I--I--Garth, I have seen Elisabeth."

"Yes?" Just the one brief monosyllable in response, uttered with a
slightly questioning inflection. Nothing more.

Sara twisted her hands together. There was something unapproachable
about Garth as he stood there--quiet, inflexible, waiting to hear what
she had to say to him.

With an effort she began again.

"She has told me of something--something that happened to you, in the
past."

"Yes? Quite a great deal happened--in my past. What was it, in
particular, that she told you?"

The mocking quality in his tones stung her into open accusation.

"She told me that you had been court-martialled and cashiered from the
Army--for cowardice." The words came slowly, succinctly.

"Ah--h!" He drew his breath sharply, and a grey shadow seemed to
spread itself over his face.

Sara waited--waited with an intensity of longing that was well-nigh
unendurable--for either the indignant denial or the easy, mirthful
scorn wherewith an innocent man might be expected to answer such a
charge.

But there came neither of these. Only silence--an endless, agonizing
silence, while Garth stood utterly motionless, looking at her, his
face slowly greying.

It was impossible to interpret the expression of his eyes. There was
neither anger, nor horror, nor pleading in their cool indomitable
stare, but only a hard, bright impenetrability, shuttering the soul
behind it from the aching gaze of the woman who waited.

In that silence, Sara's flickering hope that the accusation might
prove false went out in blinding darkness. She knew, now--knew it as
certainly as though Garth had answered her--that he was unable to deny
it. Still, she would brace herself to hear it--to endure the ultimate
anguish of words.

"Is it true?" she questioned him. "Is it true that you were--cashiered
for cowardice?"

At last he spoke.

"Yes," he said. "It is true." His voice was altogether passionless,
but something had come into his face, into his whole attitude, which
denied the calm passivity of his reply. The soul of the man--a soul in
ineffable extremity of suffering--was struggling for expression,
striving against the rigid bonds of the motionless body in which his
iron will constrained it.

Sara could sense it--a tormented flame shut in a casing of steel--and
she was swept by a torrent of uttermost pity and compassion.

"Garth! Garth! But there must have been some explanation! . . . You
weren't in your right senses at the moment. Ah! Tell me----" She broke
off, her voice failing her, her arms outflung in a passion of
entreaty.

As she leaned towards him, a tremor seemed to run through his entire
body--the tremor of leaping muscles straining against the leash. His
hands clenched slowly, the nails biting into the bruised flesh. Then
he spoke, and his voice was ringing and assured--arrogantly so. The
tortured soul within him had been beaten back once more into its
prison-house.

"I was quite in my right senses--that night on the Frontier--never
more so, believe me"--and his lips twisted in a curious, enigmatical
smile. "And as far as explanations--excuses--are concerned, the court-
martial made all that were possible. I--I was not shot, you see!"

There was something outrageous in the open derision of the last words.
He flung them at her--as though taunting, gibing at the impulse to
compassion which had swayed her, sending her tremulously towards him
with imploring, outstretched hands.

"The quality of mercy was not strained in the least," he continued.
"It fell around me like the proverbial gentle rain. I've quite a lot
to be thankful for, don't you think?"--brutally.

"A man will do a good deal to preserve a whole skin, you know," he
suggested hardily.

"Why do you speak like that?" she demanded in sharpened tones. "Do you
want me to think worse of you than I do already?"

He took a step towards her and stood looking down at her with those
bright, hard eyes.

"Yes, I do," he said decidedly. "I want you to think as badly of me as
you possibly can. I want you to realize just what sort of a blackguard
you had promised to marry, and when you've got that really clear in
your mind, you'll be able to forget all about me and marry some
cheerful young fool who hasn't been kicked out of the Army."

"As long as I live I shall never--be able--to forget that I loved--a
coward." The words came haltingly from her lips. Then suddenly her
shaking hands went up to her face, as though to shut him from her
sight, and a dry, choking sob tore its way through her throat.

He made a swift stride towards her, then checked himself and stood
motionless once more, in the utter quiescence of deliberately arrested
movement. Only his hands, hanging stiffly at his sides, opened and
shut convulsively, and his eyes should have been hidden. God never
meant any man's eyes to wear that look of unspeakable torment.

When at last Sara withdrew her hands and looked at him again, his face
was set like a mask, the lips drawn back a little from the teeth in a
way that suggested a dumb animal in pain. But she was so hurt herself
that she failed to recognize his infinitely greater hurt.

"I think--I think I hate you," she whispered.

His taut muscles seemed to relax.

"I hope you do," he said steadily. "It will be better so."

Something in the quiet acceptance of his tone moved her to a softer,
more wistful emotion.

"If it had been anything--anything but that, Garth, I think I could
have borne it."

There was a depth of appeal in the low-spoken words. But he ignored
it, opposing a reckless indifference to her softened mood.

"Then it's just as well it wasn't 'anything but that.' Otherwise"--
sardonically--"you might have felt constrained to abide by your rash
promise to marry me."

His eyes flashed over her face, mocking, deriding. He had struck where
she was most vulnerable, accusing where her innate honesty of soul
admitted she had no defence, and she winced away from the speech
almost as though it had been a blow upon her body.

It was true she had given her promise blindly, in ignorance of the
facts, but that could not absolve her. It was not Garth who had forced
the promise from her. It was she who had impetuously offered it, never
conceiving such a possibility as that he might be guilty of the one
sin for which, in her eyes, there could be no palliation.

"I know," she said unevenly. "I know. You have the right to remind me
of my promise. I--I blame myself. It's horrible--to break one's word."

She was silent a moment, standing with bent head, her instinct to be
fair, to play the game, combating the revulsion of feeling with which
the knowledge of Garth's act of cowardice had filled her. When she
looked up again there was a curious intensity in her expression, wanly
decisive.

"Marriage for us--now--could never mean anything but misery." The
effort in her voice was palpable. It was as though she were forcing
herself to utter words from which her inmost being recoiled. "But I
gave you my promise, and if--if you choose to hold me to it--"

"I don't choose!" He broke in harshly. "You may spare yourself any
anxiety on that score. You are free--as free as though we had never
met. I'm quite ready to bow to your decision that I'm not fit to marry
you."

A little caught breath of unutterable relief fluttered between her
lips. If he heard it, he made no sign.

"And now"--he turned as though to leave her--"I think that's all that
need be said between us."

"It is not all"--in a low voice.

"What? Is there more still?" Again his voice held an insolent irony
that lashed her like a whip. "Haven't you yet plumbed the full depths
of my iniquity?"

"No. There is still one further thing. You said you loved me?"

"I did--I do still, if such as I may aspire to so lofty an emotion."

"It was a lie. Even"--her voice broke--"even in that you deceived me."

It seemed as though the tremulously uttered words pierced through his
armour of sneering cynicism.

"No, in that, at least, I was honest with you." The bitter note of
mockery that had rung through all his former speech was suddenly
absent--muted, crushed out, and the quiet, steadfast utterance carried
conviction even in Sara's reeling faith, shaking her to the very soul.

"No," he said gravely. "Love can't die. But what I felt for Elisabeth
was not love--not love as you and I understand it. It was the mad
passion of a boy for an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She was an
ideal--I invested her with all the qualities and spiritual graces that
her beauty seemed to promise. But the Elisabeth I loved--didn't
exist." He drew nearer her and, laying his hands on her shoulders,
looked down at her with eyes that seemed to burn their way into the
inmost depths of her being. "Whatever you may think of me, however low
I may have fallen in your sight, believe me in this--that I have loved
you and shall always love you, utterly and entirely, with my whole
soul and body. It has not been an easy love--I fought against it with
all my strength, knowing that it could only carry pain and suffering
in its train for both of us. But it conquered me. And when you came to
me that day, so courageously, holding out your hands, claiming the
love that was unalterably yours--when you came to me like that, a
little hurt and wounded because I had been so slow to speak my love--I
yielded! Before God, Sara! I had been either more or less than a man
had I resisted!"

The grip of his hands upon her shoulders tightened until it was actual
pain, and she winced under it, shrinking away from him. He released
her instantly, and she stood silently beside him, battling against the
longing to respond to that deep, abiding love which neither now, nor
ever again in life, would she be able to doubt.

That Garth loved her, wholly and completely, was an incontrovertible
fact. She no longer felt the least lingering mistrust, nor even any
prick of jealousy that he had once loved before. That boyish passion
of the senses for Elisabeth was not comparable with this love which
was the maturer growth of his manhood--a love that could only know
fulfillment in the mystic union of body, soul, and spirit.

But this merely served to deepen the poignancy of the impending
parting--for that she and Garth must part she recognized as
inevitable.

Loving each other as men and women love but once in a lifetime, their
love was destined to be for ever unconsummated. They were as
irrevocably divided as though the seas of the entire world ran between
them.

Wearily, in the flat, level tones of one who realizes that all hope is
at an end, she stumbled through the few broken phrases which cancelled
the whole happiness of life.

"It all seems so useless, doesn't it--your love and mine? . . . You've
killed something that I felt for you--I don't quite know what to call
it--respect, I suppose, only that sounds silly, because it was much
more than that. I wish--I wish I didn't love you still. But perhaps
that, too, will die in time. You see, you're not the man I thought I
cared for. You're--you're something I'm ashamed to love--"

"That's enough!" he interrupted unsteadily. "Leave it at that. You
won't beat it if you try till doomsday."

The pain in his voice pierced her to the heart, and she made an
impulsive step towards him, shocked into quick remorse.

He turned on his heel, giving her no time to reply, and a moment later
she was alone. Then came the clang of the house door as it closed
behind him. To Sara, it sounded like the closing of a door between two
worlds--between the glowing past and the grey and empty future.

The consternation created at Sunnyside by the breaking off of Sara's
engagement had spent itself at last. Selwyn had said but little, only
his saint's eyes held the wondering, hurt look that the inexplicable
sins of humanity always had the power to bring into them.
Characteristically, he hated the sin but overflowed in sympathy for
the sinner.

"Poor devil!" he said, when the whole story of Trent's transgression
and its consequences had been revealed to him. "What a ghastly stone
to hang round a man's neck for the term of his natural life! If they'd
shot him, it would have been more merciful! That would at least have
limited the suffering," he went on, taking Sara's hand and holding it
in his strong, kindly one a moment. "Poor little comrade! Oh, my dear"
--as she shrank instinctively--"I'm not going to talk about it--I know
you'd rather not. Condolence platitudes were never in my line. But my
pal's troubles are mine--just as she once made mine hers."

Jane Crab's opinions were enunciated without fear or favour, and, in
defiance of public opinion, she took her stand on the side of the
sinner and maintained it unwaveringly.

"Well, Miss Sara," she affirmed, "unless you've proof as strong as
'Oly Writ, as they say, I'd believe naught against Mr. Trent. Bluff
and 'ard he may be in 'is manner, but after the way he conducted
himself the night Miss Molly ran away, I'll never think no ill of 'im,
not if it was ever so!"

Sara smiled drearily.

"I wish I could feel as you do, Jane dear. But--Mrs. Durward knows."

"Mrs. Durward! Huh! One of them tigris women I calls 'er," retorted
Jane, who had formed her opinion with lightning rapidity when
Elisabeth made a farewell visit to Sunnyside before leaving
Monkshaven. "Not but what you can't help liking her, neither," went on
Jane judicially. "There's something good in the woman, for all she
looks at you like a cat who thinks you're after stealing her kittens.
But there! As the doctor--bless the man!--always says, there's good in
everybody if so be you'll look for it. Only I'd as lief think that
Mrs. Durward was somehow scared-like--too almighty scared to be her
natchral self, savin' now and again when she forgets."

To Mrs. Selwyn, the breaking off of Sara's engagement, and the manner
of it, signified very little. She watched the panorama of other
people's lives unfold with considerably less sympathetic concern than
that with which one follows the ups and downs that befall the
characters in a cinema drama, since they were altogether outside the
radius of that central topic of unfailing interest--herself.

The only way in which recent events impinged upon her life was in so
far as the rupture of Sara's engagement would probably mean the
indefinite prolongation of her stay at Sunnyside, which would
otherwise have ended with her marriage. And this, from Mrs. Selwyn's
egotistical point of view, was all to the good, since Sara had
acquired a pleasant habit of making herself both useful and
entertaining to the invalid.

Molly's emotions carried her to the other extreme of the compass.
Since the night when she had realized that she had narrowly missed
making entire shipwreck of her life, thanks to the evil genius of
Lester Kent, her character seemed to have undergone a change--to have
deepened and expanded. She was no longer so buoyantly superficial in
her envisagement of life, and the big things reacted on her in a way
which would previously have been impossible. Formerly, their
significance would have passed her by, and she would have floated
airily along, unconscious of their piercing reality.

Side by side with this increase of vision, there had developed a very
deep and sincere affection for both Garth and Sara based, probably, in
its inception, on her realization that whatever of good, whatever of
happiness, life might hold for her, she would owe it fundamentally to
the two who had so determinedly kept her heedless feet from straying
into that desert from which there is no returning to the pleasant
paths of righteousness. A censorious world sees carefully to that, for
ever barring out the sinner--of the weaker sex--from inheriting the
earth.

So that to this new and awakened Molly the abrupt termination of
Sara's engagement came as something almost too overwhelming to be
borne. She did not see how Sara could bear it, and to her youthful
mind, mercifully unwitting that grief is one of the world's
commonplaces, Sara was henceforth haloed with sorrow, set specially
apart by the tragic circumstances which had enveloped her.
Unconsciously she lowered her voice when speaking to her, infusing a
certain specific sympathy into every small action she performed for
her, shrank from troubling her in any way, and altogether, in her
youth and inexperience, behaved rather as though she were in a house
of mourning, where the candles yet burned in the chamber of death and
the blinds shut out the light of day.

At last Sara rebelled, although compassionately aware of Molly's
excellent intentions.

"Molly, my angel, if you persist in treating me as though I had just
lost the whole of my relatives in an earthquake or a wreck at sea, I
shall explode. I've had a bad knock, but I don't want it continually
rubbing into me. The world will go on--even although my engagement is
broken off. And I'm going on."

It was bravely spoken, and though Sara was inwardly conscious that in
the last words the spirit, for the moment, outdistanced the flesh, it
served to dissipate the rather strained atmosphere which had prevailed
at Sunnyside since the rupture of her engagement had become common
knowledge.

So, figuratively speaking, the blinds were drawn up and life resumed
its normal aspect once again.

It had fallen to the lot of Audrey Maynard to carry the ill-tidings to
Rose Cottage. Sara had asked her to acquaint their little circle with
the altered condition of affairs, and Audrey had readily undertaken to
perform this service, eager to do anything that might spare Sara some
of the inevitable pinpricks which attend even the big tragedies of
life.

"The whole affair is incomprehensible to me," said Audrey at last, as
she rose preparatory to taking her departure. There seemed no object
in lingering to discuss so painful a topic. "It's--oh! It's heart-
breaking."

Miss Livinia departed hastily to do a little weep in the seclusion of
her room upstairs. She hardly concerned herself with the enormity of
Garth's offence. She was old, and she saw only romance shattered into
fragments, youth despoiled of its heritage, love crucified. Moreover,
the Lavender Lady had never been censorious.

"What is your opinion, Miles?" asked Audrey, when she had left the
room.

Herrick had been rather silent, his brown eyes meditative. Now he
looked up quickly.

"About the funking part of it? As I wasn't on the spot when the affair
took place, I haven't the least right to venture an opinion."

Audrey looked puzzled.

"I don't see why not. You can't get behind the verdict of the court-
martial."

"Trials have been known where justice went awry," said Miles quietly.
"There was a trial where Pilate was judge."

"Do you mean to say you doubt the verdict?"--eagerly.

"No, I was not meaning quite that in this case. But, because the law
says a man is a blackguard, when I'd stake my life he's nothing of the
kind, it doesn't alter my opinion one hair's-breadth. The verdict may
have been--probably, almost certainly, was--the only verdict that
could be given to meet the facts of the case. But still, it is
possible that it was not a just verdict--labelling as a coward for all
time a man who may have had one bad moment when his nerves played him
false. There are other men who have had their moment of funk, but, as
the matter never came under the official eyes, they have made good
since--ended up as V.C.'s, some of 'em. Facts are often very foolish
things, to my mind. Motives, and circumstances, even conditions of
physical health, are bound to play as big a part as facts, if you're
going to administer pure justice. But the army can't consider the
super-administration of justice"--smiling. "Discipline must be
maintained and examples made. Only--sometimes--it's damn bad luck on
the example."

It was an unusually long speech for Miles to have been guilty of, and
Audrey stood looking at him in some surprise.

"Miles, you're rather a dear, you know. I believe you're almost as
strongly on Garth's side as Jane Crab."

"Is Jane?" And Herrick smiled. "She's a good old sport then. Anyhow, I
don't propose to add my quota to the bill Trent's got to pay, poor
devil!"

Audrey's face softened as she turned to go.

"One can't help feeling pitifully sorry for him," she admitted. "To
have had Sara--and then to have lost her!"

There was a whimsical light in Herrick's eyes as he answered her.

"But, at least," he said, "he has had her, if only for a few days."

Audrey paused with her hand upon the latch of the door.

"I imagine Garth--asked for what he wanted!" she observed, and
vanished precipitately through the doorway.

"Audrey!" Miles started up, but, by the time he reached the house
door, she was already disappearing through the gateway into the road
and beyond pursuit.

"She must have run!" he commented ruefully to himself as he returned
to the sitting-room.

This discovery seemed to afford him food for reflection. For a long
time he sat very quietly in his chair, apparently arguing out with
himself some knotty point.

Nor had his thoughts, at the moment, any connection with the recent
discussion of Garth Trent's affairs. It was only after the Lavender
Lady had returned, a little pink about the eyelids, that the
recollection of the original object of Mrs. Maynard's visit recurred
to him.

Simultaneously, his brows drew together in a sudden concentration of
thought, and an inarticulate exclamation escaped him.

Miss Livinia looked up from the delicate piece of cobwebby lace she
was finishing.

"What did you say, dear?" she asked absently.

"I didn't say anything," he smiled back at her. "I was thinking rather
hard, that's all, and just remembered something I had forgotten.

The Lavender Lady looked a trifle mystified.

"I don't think I quite understand, Miles dear."

Herrick, on his way to the door, stooped to kiss her.

"Neither do I, Lavender Lady. That's just the devil of it," he
answered cryptically.

He passed out of the room and upstairs, presently returning with a
couple of letters, held together by an elastic band, in his hand.

They smelt musty as he unfolded them; evidently they had not seen the
light of day for a good many years. But Miles seemed to find them of
extraordinary interest, for he subjected the closely written sheets to
a first, and second, and even a third perusal. Then he replaced the
elastic band round them and shut them away in a drawer, locking the
latter carefully.

A couple of days later, Garth Trent received a note from Herrick,
asking him to come and see him.

"You haven't been near us for days," it ran. "Remember Mahomet and the
mountain, and as I can't come to you, look me up."

The letter, in its quiet avoidance of any reference to recent events,
was like cooling rain falling upon a parched and thirsty earth.

Since the history of the court-martial had become common property,
Garth had been through hell. It was extraordinary how quickly the
story had leaked out, passing from mouth to mouth until there was
hardly a cottage in Monkshaven that was not in possession of it, with
lurid and fictitious detail added thereto.

The chambermaid at the Cliff Hotel had been the primary source of
information. From the further side of the connecting-door of an
adjoining room, she had listened with interest to the conversation
which had taken place between Elisabeth and Sara on the day following
the Haven Woods picnic, and had proceeded to circulate the news with
the avidity of her class. Nor had certain gossipy members of the
picnic party refrained from canvassing threadbare the significance of
the unfortunate scene which had taken place on that occasion--
contributory evidence to the truth of the chambermaid's account of
what she had overheard.

The whole town hummed with the tale, and Garth had not long been
allowed to remain in ignorance of the fact. Anonymous letters reached
him almost daily--for it must be remembered that ten years of an aloof
existence at Monkshaven had not endeared him to his neighbours. They
had resented what they chose to consider his exclusiveness, and, now
that it was so humiliatingly explained, the meaner spirits amongst
them took this way of paying off old scores.

It was suggested by one of the anonymous writers that Trent's
continued presence in the district was felt to be a blot on the fair
fame of Monkshaven; and, by another, that should the rumours now
flying hither and thither concerning the imminence of a European war
materialize into fact, the French Foreign Legion offered opportunities
for such as he.

Garth tore the letters into fragments, pitching them contemptuously
into the waste-paper basket; but, nevertheless, they were like so many
gnats buzzing about an open wound, adding to its torture.

Black Brady, with a lively recollection of the few days in gaol which
Trent had procured him in recompense for his poaching proclivities,
was loud in his denunciation.

"Retreated, they calls it," he observed, with fine scorn. "Runned
away's the plain English of it."

And with this pronouncement all the loafers round the hotel garage
cordially agreed, and, subsequently, black looks and muttered comments
followed Garth's appearance in the streets.

To all of which Garth opposed a stony indifference--since, after all,
these lesser things were of infinitely small moment to a man whose
whole life was lying in ruins about him.

"It was good of you to ask me over," he told Herrick, as they shook
hands. "Sure you're not afraid of contamination?"

"Quite sure," replied Miles, smiling serenely. "Besides, I had a
particular reason for wishing to see you."

"What was that?"

Miles unlocked the drawer where he had laid aside the papers he had
perused with so much interest two days ago, and, slipping them out of
the elastic bands that held them, handed them to Trent.

"I'd like you to read those documents, if you will," he said.

There was a short silence while Trent's eyes travelled swiftly down
the closely written sheets. When he looked up from their perusal his
expression was perfectly blank. Miles could glean nothing from it.

"Well?" he said tentatively.

Garth quietly tendered him back the letters.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Herrick," was all he
vouchsafed.

"Then it isn't true?" asked Miles searchingly.

"It sounds improbable," replied Trent composedly.

Miles reflected a moment. Then, slowly replacing the papers within the
elastic band, he remarked--

"I think I'll take Sara's opinion."

If he had desired to break down the other's guard of indifference, he
succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.

Trent sprang to his feet, his hand outstretched as though to snatch
the letters back again. His eyes blazed excitedly.

"No! No! You mustn't do that--you can't do that! It's---- Oh! You
won't understand--but those papers must be destroyed."

Herrick's fingers closed firmly round the papers in question, and he
slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat.

"They certainly will not be destroyed," he replied. "I hold them in
trust. But, tell me, why should I not show them to Sara? It seems to
me the one obvious thing to do."

Trent shook his head.

"No. Believe me, it could do no good, and it might do an infinity of
harm."

Herrick looked incredulous.

"I can't see that," he objected.

"It is so, nevertheless."

A silence fell between them.

"Then you mean," said Herrick, breaking it at last, "that I'm to hold
my tongue?"

"Just that."

"It is very unfair."

"And if you published that information abroad, it's unfair to Tim.
Have you thought of that? He, at least, is perfectly innocent."

"But, man, it's inconceivable--grotesque!"

"Not at all. I gave Elisabeth Durward my promise, and she has married
and borne a son, trusting to that promise. My lips are closed--now and
always."

"But mine are not."

"They will be, Miles, if I ask it. Don't you see, there's no going
back for me now? I can't wipe out the past. I made a bad mistake--a
mistake many a youngster similarly circumstanced might have made. And
I've been paying for it ever since. I must go on paying to the end--
it's my honour that's involved. That's why I ask you not to show those
letters."

Miles looked unconvinced.

"I forged my own fetters, Herrick," continued Trent. "In a way, I'm
responsible for Tim Durward's existence and I can't damn his chances
at the outset. After all, he's at the beginning of things. I'm getting
towards the end. At least"--wearily--"I hope so."

Herrick's quick glance took in the immense alteration the last few
days had wrought in Trent's appearance. The man had aged visibly, and
his face was worn and lined, the eyes burning feverishly in their
sockets.

"You're good for another thirty or forty years, bar accidents," said
Herrick at last, deliberately. "Are you going to make those years
worse than worthless to you by this crazy decision?"

"I've no alternative. Good Lord, man!"--with savage irritability--"you
don't suppose I'm enjoying it, do you? But I've no way out. I took a
certain responsibility on myself--and I must see it through. I can't
shirk it now, just because pay-day's come. I can do nothing except
stick it out."

"And what about Sara?" said Herrick quietly. "Has she no claim to be
considered?"

He almost flinched from the look of measureless anguish that leapt
into the others man's eyes in response.

"For God's sake, man, leave Sara out of it!" Garth exclaimed thickly.
"I've cursed myself enough for the suffering I've brought on her. I
was a mad fool to let her know I cared. But I thought, as Garth Trent,
that I had shut the door on the past. I ought to have known that the
door of the past remains eternally ajar."

Miles nodded understandingly.

"I don't think you were to blame," he said. "It's Mrs. Durward who has
pulled the door wide open. She's stolen your new life from you--the
life you had built up. Trent, you owe that woman nothing! Let me show
this letter, and the other that goes with it, to Sara!"

Trent shook his head in mute refusal.

"I can't," he said at last. "Elisabeth must be forgiven. The best
woman in the world may lose all sense of right and wrong when it's a
question of her child. But, even so, I can't consent to the making
public of that letter." He rose and paced the room restlessly. "Man!
Man!" he cried at last, coming to a halt in front of Herrick. "Can't
you see--that woman trusted me with her whole life, and with the life
of any child that she might bear, when she married on the strength of
my promise. And I must keep faith with her. It's the one poor rag of
honour left me, Herrick!"--with intense bitterness.

There was a long silence. Then, at last, Miles held out his hand.

"You've beaten me," he said sadly. "I won't destroy the letters. As I
said, they are a trust. But the secret is safe with me, after this.
You've tied my hands."

Trent smiled grimly.

"You'll get used to it," he commented. "Mine have been tied for three-
and-twenty years--though even yet I don't wear my bonds with grace,
precisely."

He had become once more the hermit of old acquaintance--sardonic,
harsh, his emotions hidden beneath that curt indifference of manner
with which those who knew him were painfully familiar.

The two men shook hands in silence, and a few minutes later, Herrick,
left alone, replaced the letters in the drawer whence he had taken
them, and, turning the key upon them, slipped it into his pocket.

In remote country districts that memorable Fourth of August, when
England declared war on Germany, came and went unostentatiously.

People read the news a trifle breathlessly, reflected with a sigh of
contentment on the invincible British Navy, and with a little gust of
prideful triumph upon the Expeditionary force--ready to the last
burnished button of each man's tunic--and proceeded quietly with their
usual avocations.

Then came the soaring Bank Rate, and business men on holiday raced
back to London to contend with the new financial conditions and assure
their credit. That was all that happened--at first.

Few foresaw that the gaunt, grim Spectre of War had come to dwell in
their very midst, nor that soon he would pass from house to house,
palace and cottage alike, touching first this man, then that, on the
shoulder, with the single word "Come!" on his lips, until gradually
the nations, one by one, left their tasks of peace and rose and
followed him.

Monkshaven, in common with other seaside towns, witnessed the sudden
exodus of City men when the climbing Bank Rate sounded its alarm.
Beyond that, the war, for the moment, reacted very little on its daily
processes of life. There was no disorganization of amusements--tennis,
boating, and bathing went on much as usual, and clever people, proud
of their ability to add two and two together and make four of them,
announced that it was all explained now why certain young officers in
the neighbourhood had been hurriedly recalled a few days previously,
and their leave cancelled.

Then came the black news of that long, desperate retreat from Mons,
shaking the nation to its very soul, and in the wave of high courage
and endeavour that swept responsively across the country, the smaller
things began to fall into their little place.

To Sara, stricken by her own individual sorrow, the war came like a
rushing, mighty wind, rousing her from the brooding, introspective
habit which had laid hold of her and bracing her to take a fresh grip
upon life. Its immense demands, the illimitable suffering it carried
in its train, lifted her out of the contemplation of her own personal
grief into a veritable passion of pity for the world agony beating up
around her.

And, with Sara, to compassionate meant to succour. Nor did it require
more than the first few weeks of war to demonstrate where such help as
she was capable of giving was most sorely needed.

She had been through a course of First Aid and held her certificate,
and, thanks to a year in France when she was seventeen--a much-grudged
year, at the time, since it had separated her from her beloved Patrick
--and to a natural facility for the language, inherited from her
French forbears, she spoke French almost as fluently as she did
English.

In France they were crying out for nurses, for at that period of the
war there was work for any woman who had even a little knowledge plus
the grit to face the horrors of those early days, and it was to France
that Sara forthwith determined to go.

She had heard that an old friend of Patrick Lovell's, Lady Arronby by
name, proposed equipping and taking over to France a party of nurses,
and she promptly wrote to her, begging that she might be included in
the little company.

Lady Arronby, who had been a sister at a London hospital before her
marriage, recollected her old friend's ward very clearly. Sara rarely
failed to make a definite impression, even upon people who only knew
her slightly, and Lady Arronby, who had known her from her earliest
days at Barrow, answered her letter without hesitation.

"I shall be delighted to have you with me," she had written. "Even
though you are not a trained nurse, there's work out there for women
of your caliber, my dear. So come. It will be a week or two yet before
we have all our equipment, but I am pushing things on as fast as I
can, so hold yourself in readiness to come at a day's notice."

Meanwhile, Sara's earliest personal encounter with the reality of the
war came in a few hurried lines from Elisabeth telling her that Major
Durward had rejoined the Army and would be going out to France almost
immediately.

Sara thrilled, and with the thrill came the answering stab of the
sword that was to pierce her again and again through the long months
ahead. Garth Trent--the man she loved--could have no part nor lot in
this splendid service of England's sons for England! The country
wanted brave men now--not men who faltered when faltering meant
failure and defeat.

She had not seen Garth since that day--a million years ago it seemed--
when she had sent him from her, and he had gone, admitting the justice
of her decision.

There was no getting behind that. She would have defied Elisabeth,
defied a whole world of slanderous tongues, had they accused him, if
he himself had denied the charge. But he had not been able to deny it.
it was true--a deadly, official truth, tabulated somewhere in the
records of her country, that the man she loved had been cashiered for
cowardice.

The knowledge almost crushed her, and she sometimes wondered if there
could be a keener suffering, in the whole gamut of human pain, than
that which a woman bears whose high pride in her lover has been laid
utterly in the dust.

The dread of danger, separation--even death itself--were not
comparable with it. Sara envied the women whose men were killed in
action. At least, they had a splendid memory to hold which nothing
could ever soil or take away.

Sometimes her thoughts wandered fugitively to Tim. Surely here was his
chance to break from the bondage his mother had imposed upon him! He
had not written to her of late, but she felt convinced that she would
have heard from Elisabeth had he volunteered. She was a little puzzled
over his silence and inaction. He had seemed so keen last winter at
Barrow, when together they had discussed this very subject of
soldiering. Could it be that now, when the opportunity offered, Tim
was--evading it? But the thought was dismissed almost as swiftly as it
had arisen, and Sara blushed scarlet with shame that the bare
suspicions should have crossed her mind, even for an instant,
recognizing it as the outcrop of that bitter knowledge which had cut
at the very roots of her belief in men's courage.

And there were men around her whose readiness to make the great
sacrifice combated the poison of one man's failure. Daily she heard of
this or that man whom she knew, either personally or by name, having
volunteered and been accepted, and very often she had to listen to
Miles Herrick's fierce rebellion against the fact that he was
ineligible, and endeavour to console him.

But it was Audrey Maynard who plumbed the full depths of bitterness in
Herrick's heart. She had been teaching him to knit, and he was
floundering through the intricacies of turning his first heel when one
day he surprised her by hurling the sock, needles and all, to the
other end of the room.

"There's work for a man when his country's at war! My God! Audrey, I
don't know how I'm going to bear it--to lie here on my couch, knitting
--knitting!--when men are out there dying! Why won't they take a
lame man? Can't a lame man fire a gun--and then die like the rest of
'em?"

Audrey looked at him pitifully.

"My dear, war takes only the best--the youngest and the fittest. But
there's plenty of work for the women and men at home."

He met her glance, and read, at last, what--as she told him later--he
might have read there any time during the last six months, had he
chosen to look for it.

"Do you mean that, Audrey?" he asked, suddenly gripping her hands
hard. "All of it--all that it implies?"

She slipped to her knees beside his couch.

"Oh, my dear!" she said, between laughing and crying. "I've been
meaning it--'all of it'--for ever so long. Only--only you won't ask me
to marry you!"

"How can I? A lame man, and not even a rich one?"

"I believe," said Audrey composedly, "we've argued both those points
before--from a strictly impersonal point of view! Couldn't you--
couldn't you get over your objection to coming to live with me at
Greenacres, dear?"

Audrey always declared, afterwards, that it had required the most
blatant encouragement on her part to induce Miles to propose to her,
and that, but for the war--which convinced him that he was of no use
to any one else--he never would have done so.

Presumably she was able to supply the requisite stimulus, for when the
Lavender Lady joined them later on in the afternoon, she found herself
called upon to perform that function of sheer delight to every old
maid of the right sort--namely, to bestow her blessing on a pair of
newly betrothed lovers.

Sara received the news the next morning, and though naturally, by
contrast, it seemed to add a keener edge to her own grief, she was
still able to rejoice whole-heartedly over this little harvesting of
joy which her two friends had snatched from amid the world's dreadful
harvesting of pain and sorrow.

By the same post as the radiant letters from Miles and Audrey came one
from Elisabeth Durward. She wrote distractedly.

"Tim is determined to volunteer," ran her letter. "I can't let him
go, Sara. He is my only son, and I don't see why he should be
claimed from me by this horrible war. I have persuaded him to wait
until he has seen you. That is all he will consent to. So will you
come and do what you can to dissuade him? There is a cord by which
you could hold him if you would."

A transient smile crossed Sara's face as she pictured Tim gravely
consenting to await her opinion on the matter. He knew--none better!--
what it would be, and, without doubt, he had merely agreed to the
suggestion in the hope that her presence might ease the strain and
serve to comfort his mother a little.

Sara telegraphed that she would come to Barrow Court the following
day, and, on her arrival, found Tim waiting for her at the station in
his two-seater.

"Well," he said with a grin, as the little car slid away along the
familiar road. "Have you come to persuade me to be a good boy and stay
at home, Sara?"

"You know I've not," she replied, smiling. "I'm gong to talk sense to
Elisabeth. Oh! Tim boy, how I envy you! It's splendid to be a man
these days."

He nodded silently, but she could read in his expression the tranquil
satisfaction that his decision had brought. She had seen the same look
on other men's faces, when, after a long struggle with the woman-love
that could not help but long to hold them back, the final decision had
been taken.

Arrived at the lodge gates, Tim handed over the car to the chauffeur
who met them there, evidently by arrangement.

"I thought we'd walk across the park," he suggested.

Sara acquiesced delightedly. There was a tender, reminiscent pleasure
in strolling along the winding paths that had once been so happily
familiar, and, hardly conscious of the sudden silence which had fallen
upon her companion, her thoughts slipped back to the old days at
Barrow when she had wandered, with Patrick beside her in his wheeled
chair, along these selfsame paths.

With a little thrill, half pain, half pleasure, she noted each well-
remembered landmark. There was the arbour where they used to shelter
from a shower, built with sloped boards at its entrance so that
Patrick's chair could easily be wheeled into it; now they were passing
the horse-chestnut tree which she herself had planted years ago--with
the head gardener's assistance!--in place of one that had been struck
by lightning. It had grown into a sturdy young sapling by this time.
Here was the Queen's Bench--an old stone seat where Queen Elisabeth
was supposed to have once sat and rested for a few minutes when paying
a visit to Barrow Court. Sara reflected, with a smile, that if history
speaks truly, the Virgin Queen must have spent quite a considerable
portion of her time in visiting the houses of her subjects! And here--

"Sara!" Tim's voice broke suddenly across the recollections that were
thronging into her mind. There was a curious intent quality in his
tone that arrested her attention, filling her with a nervous
foreboding of what he had to say.

"Sara, you know, of course, as well as I do, that I am going to
volunteer. I let mother send for you, because--well, because I thought
you would make it a little easier for her, for one thing. But I had
another reason."

"Had you?" Sara spoke mechanically. They had paused beside the Queen's
Bench, and half-unconsciously she laid her ungloved hand caressingly
on the seat's high back. The stone struck cold against the warmth of
her flesh.

"Yes." Tim was speaking again, still in that oddly direct manner. "I
want to ask you--now, before I go to France--whether there will ever
be any chance for me?"

Sara turned her eyes to his face.

"You mean----"

"I mean that I'm asking you once again if you will marry me? If you
will--if I can go away leaving my wife in England, I shall have so
much the more to fight for. But if you can't give me the answer I wish
--well"--with a curious little smile--"it will make death easier,
should it come--that's all."

The quiet, grave directness of the speech was very unlike the old,
impetuous Tim of former days. It brought with it to Sara's mind a
definite recognition of the fact that the man had replaced the boy.

"No, Tim," she responded quietly. "I made one mistake--in promising to
marry you when I loved another man. I won't repeat it."

"But"--Tim's face expressed sheer wonder and amazement--"you don't
still care for Garth Trent--for that blackguard? Oh!" remorsefully, as
he saw her wince--"forgive me, Sara, but this war makes one feel even
more bitterly about such a thing than one would in normal times."

"I know--I understand," she replied quietly. "I'm--ashamed of loving
him." She turned her head restlessly aside. "But, don't you see, love
can't be made and unmade to order. It just happens. And it's
happened to me. In the circumstances, I can't say I like it. But there
it is. I do love Garth--and I can't unlove him. At least, not yet."

"But some day, Sara, some day?" he urged.

She shook her head.

"I shall never marry anybody now, Tim. If--if ever I 'get over' this
fool feeling for Garth, I know how it would leave me. I shall be quite
cold and hard inside--like that stone"--pointing to the Queen's Bench.
"I wish--I wish I had reached that stage now."

Silently Tim held out his hand, and she laid hers within it, meeting
his grave eyes.

"I won't ever bother you again," he said, at last, quietly. "I think I
understand, Sara, and--and, old girl, I'm awfully sorry. I wish I
could have saved you--that."

He stooped his head and kissed her--frankly, as a big brother might,
and Sara, recognizing that henceforth she would find in him only the
good comrade of earlier days, kissed him back.

"Thank you, Tim," she said. "I knew you would understand. And, please,
we won't ever speak of it again."

"No, we won't speak of it again," he answered.

He tucked his arm under hers, and they walked on together in the
direction of the house.

"And now," she said, "let's go to Elisabeth and break it to her that
we are--both--going out to France as soon as we can get there."

He turned to look at her.

"You?" he exclaimed. "You going out? What do you mean?"

"I'm going with Lady Arronby. I want to go--badly. I want to be in the
heart of things. You don't suppose"--with a rather shaky little laugh
--"that I can stay quietly at home in England--and knit, do you?"

"No, I suppose you couldn't. But I don't half like it. The women who
go--out there--have got to face things. I shan't like to think of you
running risks--"

She laughed outright.

"Tim, if you talk nonsense of that kind, I'll revenge myself by urging
Elisabeth to keep you at home," she declared. "Oh! Tim boy, can't you
see that just now I must have something to do--something that will
fill up every moment--and keep me from thinking!"

Tim heard the cry that underlay the words. There was no
misunderstanding it. He squeezed her arm and nodded.

"All right, old thing, I won't try to dissuade you. I can guess a
little of how you're feeling."

Sara's interview with Elisabeth was very different from anything she
had expected. She had anticipated passionate reproaches, tears even,
for an attractive women who has been consistently spoiled by her
menkind is, of all her sex, the least prepared to bow to the force of
circumstances.

But there was none of these things. It almost seemed as though in that
first searching glance of hers, which flashed from Sara's face to the
well-beloved one of her son, Elisabeth had recognized and accepted
that, in the short space of time since these two had met, the decision
concerning Tim's future had been taken out of her hands.

It was only when, in the course of their long, intimate talk together,
she had drawn from Sara the acknowledgment that she had once again
refused to be Tim's wife, that her control wavered.

"But, Sara, surely--surely you can't still have any thought of
marrying Garth Trent?" There was a hint of something like terror in
her voice.

"Do you mean that you can still care for him--now that you know what
kind of man he is?"

"Oh! Good Heavens, Elisabeth!"--the irritation born of frayed nerves
hardened Sara's voice so that it was almost unrecognizable--"you can't
turn love on and off as you would a tap! I shall never marry anybody
now. Tim understands that, and--you must understand it, too."

There was no mistaking her passionate sincerity. The truth--that Sara
would never, as long as she lived, put another in the place Garth
Trent had held--seemed borne in upon Elisabeth that moment.

With a strangled cry she sank back into her chair, and her eyes, fixed
on Sara's small, stern-set face, held a strange, beaten look. As she
sat there, her hands gripping the chair-arms, there was something
about her whole attitude that suggested defeat.

"So it's all been useless--quite useless!" she muttered in a queer,
whispering voice.

She was not looking at Sara now. Her vision was turned inward, and she
seemed to be utterly oblivious of the other's presence. "Useless!" she
repeated, still in that strange, whispering tone.

"What has been useless?" asked Sara curiously.

Elisabeth started, and stared at her for a moment in a vacant fashion.
Then, all at once, her mind seemed to come back to the present, and
simultaneously the familiar watchful look sprang into her eyes. Sara
was oddly conscious of being reminded of a sentry who has momentarily
slept at his post, and then, awakening suddenly, feverishly resumed
his vigilance.

"What was I saying?" Elisabeth brushed her hand distressfully across
her forehead.

"You said that it had all been useless," repeated Sara. "What did you
mean?"

Elisabeth paused a moment before replying.

"I meant that all my hopes were useless," she explained at last. "The
hopes I had that some day you would be Tim's wife."

"Yes, they're quite useless--if that is what you meant," replied Sara.
But there was a perplexed expression in her eyes. She had a feeling
that Elisabeth was not being quite frank with her--that that whispered
confession of failure signified something other than the simple
interpretations vouchsafed.

The thing worried her a little, nagging at the back of her mind with
the pertinacity common to any little unexplained incident that has
caught one's attention. But, in the course of a few days, the manifold
happenings of daily life drove it out of her thoughts, not to recur
until many months had passed and other issues paved the way for its
resurgence.

Sara remained at Barrow until Tim had volunteered and been accepted,
and the settlement of her own immediate plans synchronizing with this
last event, it came about that it was only two hours after Tim's
departure that she, too, bade farewell to Elisabeth, in order to join
up in London with Lady Arronby's party.

Elisabeth stood at the head of the great flight of granite steps at
Barrow and waved her hand as the car bore Sara swiftly away, and
across the latter's mind flashed the memory of that day, nearly a year
ago, when she herself had stood in the same place, waiting to welcome
Elisabeth to her new home.

The contrast between then and now struck her poignantly. She recalled
Elisabeth as she had been that day--gracious, smiling, queening it
delightfully over her two big men, husband and son, who openly
worshipped her. Now, there remained only a great empty house, and that
solitary figure on the doorstep, standing there with white face and
lips that smiled perfunctorily.

Elisabeth turned slowly back into the house as the car disappeared
round the curve of the drive. For her, the moment was doubly bitter.
One by one, husband, son, and the woman whom she had ardently longed
to see that son's wife, had been claimed from her by the pitiless
demands of the madness men call War.

But there was still more for her to face. There was the utter downfall
of all her hopes, the defeat of all her purposes. She had striven with
the whole force that was in her to assure Tim's happiness. To compass
this, she had torn down the curtain of the past, proclaiming a man's
shame and hurling headlong into the dust the new life he had built up
for himself, and with it had gone a woman's faith, and trust, and
happiness.

And it had all been so futile! Two lives ruined, and the purchase
price paid in tears of blood; and, after all, Tim's happiness was as
utterly remote and beyond attainment as though no torrent of disaster
had been let loose to further it! Elisabeth had bartered her soul in
vain.

In the solitude which was all the war had left her, she recognized
this, and, since she was normally a woman of kind and generous
impulses, she suffered in the realization of the spoiled and mutilated
lives for which she was responsible.

Not that she would have acted differently were the same choice
presented to her again. She did not want to hurt people, but the
primitive maternal instinct, which was the pivot of her being, blinded
her to the claims of others if those claims reacted adversely on her
son.

Only now, in the bitterness of defeat, as she looked back upon her
midnight interview with Garth Trent, she was conscious of a sick
repugnance. It had not been a pleasant thing, that thrusting of a
knife into an old wound. This, too, she had done for Tim's sake. The
pity of it was that Garth had suffered needlessly--uselessly!

She had thought the issue of events hung solely betwixt him and her
son, and, with her mind concentrated on this idea, she had overlooked
the possibility of any other outcome. But the acceptance of an
unexpected sequence had been forced upon her--Sara would never marry
any one now! Elisabeth recognized that all her efforts had been in
vain.

And the supreme bitterness, from which all that was honest and upright
within her shrank with inward shame and self-loathing, lay in the fact
that she, above all others, owed Garth Trent--that which he had begged
of her in vain--the tribute of silence concerning the past.

As Sara took her seat on board the train for Monkshaven, she was
conscious of that strange little thrill of the wanderer returned which
is the common possession of the explorer and of the school-girl at
their first sight of the old familiar scenes from which they have been
exiled.

She could hardly believe that barely a year had elapsed since she had
quitted Monkshaven. So many things had happened--so many changes taken
place. Audrey had been transformed into Mrs. Herrick; Tim had been
given a commission; and Molly, the one-time butterfly, was now become
a working-bee--a member of the V.A.D. and working daily at Oldhampton
Hospital. Sara could scarcely picture such a metamorphosis!

The worst news had been that of Major Durward's death--he had been
killed in action, gallantly leading his men, in the early part of the
year. Elisabeth had written to Sara at the time--a wonderfully brave,
simple letter, facing her loss with a fortitude which Sara,
remembering her adoration for her husband and her curious antipathy to
soldiering as a profession, had not dared to anticipate. There was
something rather splendid about her quiet acceptance of it. It was
Elisabeth at her best--humanly hurt and broken, but almost heroic in
her endurance now that the blow had actually fallen. And Sara prayed
that no further sacrifice might be demanded from her--prayed that Tim
might come through safely. For herself, she mourned Geoffrey Durward
as one good comrade does another. She knew that his death would leave
a big gap in the ranks of those she counted friends.

It had been a wonderful year--that year which she had passed in France
--wonderful in its histories of tragedy and self-sacrifice, and in its
revelation both of the brutality and of the infinite fineness of
humanity. Few could have passed through such an experience and
remained unchanged, certainly no one as acutely sentient and receptive
as Sara.

She felt as though she had been pitchforked into a vast melting-pot,
where the cast-iron generalizations and traditions which most people
consider their opinions grew flexible and fluid in the scorching heat
of the furnace, assimilating so much of the other ingredients in the
cauldron that they could never reassume their former unqualified and
rigid state.

And now that year of crowded life and ardent service was over, and she
was side-tracked by medical orders for an indefinite period.

"Go back to England," her doctor had told her, "to the quietest corner
in the country you can find--and try to forget that there is a war!"

This thin, eager-faced young woman, of whom every one on the hospital
staff spoke in such glowing terms, interested him enormously. He could
see that her year's work had taken out of her about double what it
would have taken out of any one less sensitively alive, and he made a
shrewd guess that something over and above the mere hard work
accounted for that curiously fine-drawn look which he had observed in
her.

During a hastily snatched meal, before the advent of another batch of
casualties, he had sounded Lady Arronby on the subject. The latter
shook her head.

"I can tell you very little. I believe there was a bad love-affair
just before the war. All I know is that she was engaged and that the
engagement was broken off very suddenly."

"Humph! And she's been living on her reserves ever since. Pack her off
to England--and do it quick."

So October found Sara back in England once again, and as the train
steamed into Monkshaven station, and her eager gaze fell on the little
group of people on the platform, waiting to welcome her return, she
felt a sudden rush of tears to her eyes.

She winked them away, and leaned out of the window. They were all
there--big Dick Selwyn, and Molly, looking like a masquerading Venus
in her V.A.D. uniform, the Lavender Lady and Miles, and--radiant and
well-turned-out as ever--Mile's wife.

The Herrick's wedding had taken place very unobtrusively. About a
month after Sara had crossed to France, Miles and Audrey had walked
quietly into church one morning at nine o'clock and got married.

Monkshaven had been frankly disappointed. The gossips, who had so
frequently partaken of Audrey's hospitality and then discussed her
acrimoniously, had counted upon the lavish entertainment with which,
even in war-time, the wedding of a millionaire's widow might be
expected to be celebrated.

Instead of which, there had been this "hole-and-corner" sort of
marriage, as the disappointed femininity of Monkshaven chose to call
it, and, after a very brief honeymoon, Miles and Audrey had returned
and thrown themselves heart and soul into the work of organizing and
equipping a convalescent hospital for officers, of which Audrey had
undertaken to bear the entire cost.

Henceforth the mouths of Audrey's detractors were closed. She was no
longer "that shocking little widow with the dyed hair," but a woman
who had married into a branch of one of the oldest families in the
county, and whose immense private fortune had enabled her to give
substantial help to her country in its need.

"I think it's simply splendid of you, Audrey," declared Sara warmly,
as they were all partaking of tea at Greenacres, whither Audrey's car
had borne them from the station.

Audrey laughed.

"My dear, what else could I do with my money? I've got such a
sickening lot of it, you see! Besides"--with a bantering glance at her
husband--"I think it was only the prospect of being of some use at my
hospital which induced Miles to marry me! He's my private secretary,
you know, and boss of the commissariat department."

Miles saluted.

"Quartermaster, at your service, miss," he said cheerfully, adding
with a chuckle: "I saw my chance of getting a job if I married Audrey,
so of course I took it."

He was looking amazingly well. The fact of being of some use in the
world had acted upon him like a tonic, and there was no
misinterpreting the glance of complete and happy understanding that
passed between him and his wife.

Glad as she was to see it, it served to remind Sara painfully of all
that she had missed, to stir anew the aching longing for Garth Trent,
which, though struggled against, and beaten down, and sometimes
temporarily crowded out by the thousand claims of each day's labour,
had been with her all through the long months of her absence from
Monkshaven.

It was this which had worn her so fine, not the hard physical work
that she had been doing. Always slender, and built on racing lines,
there was something almost ethereal about her now, and her sombre eyes
looked nearly double their size in her small face of which the contour
was so painfully distinct. Yet she was as vivid and alive as ever; she
seemed to diffuse, as it were, a kind of spiritual brilliance.

"She makes one think of a flame," Audrey told her husband when they
were alone once more. "There is something so vital about her, in
spite of that curiously frail look she has."

Miles nodded.

"She's burning herself out," he said briefly.

Audrey looked startled.

"What do you mean, Miles?"

"Good Heavens! I should think it's self-evident. She's exactly as much
in love with Trent as she was a year ago, and she's fighting against
it every hour of her life. And the strain's breaking her."

"Can't we do something to help?" Audrey put her question with a
helpless consciousness of its futility.

Herrick's eyes kindled.

"Nothing," he answered with quiet decision. "Every one must work out
his own salvation--if it's to be a salvation worth having."

Herrick had delved to the root of the matter when he had declared that
Sara was exactly as much in love as she had been a year ago.

She had realized this for herself, and it had converted life into an
endless conflict between her love for Garth and her shamed sense of
his unworthiness. And now, her return to Monkshaven, to its familiar,
memory-haunted scenes, had quickened the struggle into new vitality.

With the broadened outlook born of her recent experiences, she began
to ask herself whether a man need be condemned, utterly and for ever,
for a momentary loss of nerve--even Elisabeth had admitted that it was
probably no more than that! And then, conversely, her fierce
detestation of that particular form of weakness, inculcated in her
from her childhood by Patrick Lovell, would spring up protestingly,
and she would shrink with loathing from the thought that she had given
her love to a man who had been convicted of that very thing.

Nor was the attitude he had assumed in regard to the war calculated to
placate her. She had learned from Molly that he had abstained from
taking up any form of war-work whatsoever. He appeared to be utterly
indifferent to the need of the moment, and the whole of Monkshaven
buzzed with patriotic disapprobation of his conduct. There were few
idle hands there now. A big munitions factory had been established at
Oldhampton, and its demands, added to the necessities of the hospital,
left no loophole of excuse for slackers.

Sara reflected bitterly that the sole courage of which Garth seemed
possessed was a kind of cold, moral courage--brazen-facedness, the
townspeople termed it--which enabled him to refuse doggedly to be
driven out of Monkshaven, even though the whole weight of public
opinion was dead against him.

And then the recollection of that day on Devil's Hood Island, when he
had deliberately risked his life to save her reputation, would return
to her with overwhelming force--mocking the verdict of the court-
martial, repudiating the condemnation which had made her thrust him
out of her life.

So the pendulum swung, this way and that, lacerating her heart each
time it swept forward or back. But the blind agony of her recoil, when
she had first learned the story of that tragic happening on the Indian
frontier, was passed.

Then, overmastered by the horror of the thing, she had flung violently
away from Garth, feeling herself soiled and dishonoured by the mere
fact of her love for him, too revolted to contemplate anything other
than the severance of the tie between them as swiftly as possible.

Now, with the widened sympathies and understanding which the past year
of intimacy with human nature at its strongest, and at its weakest,
had brought her, new thoughts and new possibilities were awaking
within her.

The furnace--that fiercely burning furnace of life at its intensest--
had done its work.

"Elisabeth doesn't give any particulars in her letter. I can't
understand her," Sara continued, her brows contracting in a puzzled
fashion. "She seems so calm about it. She has always hated the idea of
Tim's soldiering, yet now, although she's lost her husband and her son
is wounded, she's taking it finely."

Selwyn looked up from filling his pipe.

"She's answering to the call--like every one else," he observed
quietly.

"No." Sara shook her head. "I don't feel as though it were that. It's
something more individual. Perhaps"--thoughtfully--"it's pride of a
kind. The sort of impression I have is that she's so proud--so proud
of Geoffrey's fine death, and of Tim's winning the Military Cross,
that it has compensated in some way."

"The war's full of surprises," remarked Molly reflectively. "I never
was so astonished in my life as when I found that Lester Kent's wife
believed him to be a model of all the virtues! I wrote and told you--
didn't I, Sara?--that he was sent to Oldhampton Hospital? He got
smashed up, driving a motor ambulance, you know."

"Yes, you wrote and said that he died in hospital."

"Well, his wife came to see him, with her little boy. She was the
sweetest thing, and so plucky. 'My dear,' she said to me, after it was
all over, 'I hope you'll find a husband as dear and good. He was so
loyal and true--and now that he's gone, I shall always have that to
remember!' " Molly's eyes had grown very big and bright. "Oh! Sara,"
she went on, catching her breath a little, "supposing you hadn't
brought me home--that night, she would have had no beautiful memory to
help her now."

"And yet the memory is an utterly false one--though I suppose it will
help her just the same! It's knowing the truth that hurts, sometimes."
And Sara's lips twisted a little. "What a droll world it is--of shame
and truth all mixed up--the ugly and the beautiful all lumped
together!"

"And just now," put in Selwyn quietly, "it's so full of beauty."

"Beauty?" exclaimed both girls blankly.

Selwyn nodded, his eyes luminous.

"Isn't heroism beautiful--and self-sacrifice?" he said. "And this
war's full of it. Sometimes, when I read the newspapers, I think God
Himself must be surprised at the splendid things the men He made have
done."

Sara turned away, swept by the recollection of one man she knew who
had nothing splendid, nothing glorious, to his credit. Almost
invariably, any discussion of the war ended by hurting her horribly.

"I'll take that basket of flowers across to the 'Convalescent' now, I
think," she said, rising abruptly from her seat by the fire.

Selwyn nodded, mentally anathematizing himself for having driven her
thoughts inward, and Molly, who had developed amazingly of late,
tactfully refrained from offering to accompany her.

The Convalescent Hospital, situated on the crest of a hill above the
town, was a huge mansion which had been originally built by a
millionaire named Rattray, who, coming afterwards to financial grief,
had found himself too poor to live in it when it was completed. It had
been frankly impossible as a dwelling for any one less richly dowered
with this world's goods, and, in consequence, when the place was
thrown on the market, no purchaser would be found for it--since
Monkshaven offered no attraction to millionaires in general.

Since then it had been known as Rattray's Folly, and it was not until
Audrey cast covetous eyes upon it for her convalescent soldiers that
the "Folly" had served any purpose other than that of a warning to
people not to purchase boots too big for them.

A short cut from Sunnyside to the hospital lay through Crabtree Moor,
and as Sara took her way across the rough strip of moorland, dotted
with clumps of gorse and heather, her thoughts flew back to that day
when she and Garth had encountered Black Brady there, and to the
ridiculous quarrel which had ensued in consequence of Garth's refusal
to condone the man's offence. For days they had not spoken to each
other.

Looking backward, how utterly insignificant seemed that petty
disagreement now! Had she but known the bitter separation that must
come, she would have let no trifling difference, such as this had
been, rob her of a single precious moment of their friendship.

She wondered if she and Garth would ever meet again. She had been back
in Monkshaven for some weeks now, but he had studiously avoided
meeting her, shutting himself up within the solitude of Far End.

And then, with her thoughts still centred round the man she loved, she
lifted her eyes and saw him standing quite close to her. He was
leaning against a gate which gave egress from the moor into an
adjacent pasture field towards which her steps were bent. His arms,
loosely folded, rested upon the top of the gate, and he was looking
away from her towards the distant vista of sea and cliff. Evidently he
had not heard her light footsteps on the springy turf, for he made no
movement, but remained absorbed in his thoughts, unconscious of her
presence.

Sara halted as though transfixed. For an instant the whole world
seemed to rock, and a black mist rose up in front of her, blotting out
that solitary figure at the gateway. Her heart beat in great,
suffocating throbs, and her throat ached unbearably, as if a hand had
closed upon it and were gripping it so tightly that she could not
breathe. Then her senses steadied, and her gaze leapt to the face
outlined in profile against the cold background of the winter sky.

Her searching eyes, poignantly observant, sensed a subtle difference
in it--or, perhaps, less actually a difference than a certain
emphasizing of what had been before only latent and foreshadowed. The
lean face was still leaner than she had known it, and there were deep
lines about the mouth--graven. And the mouth itself held something
sternly sweet and austere about the manner of its closing--a severity
of self-discipline which one might look to see on the lips of a man
who has made the supreme sacrifice of his own will, bludgeoning his
desires into submission in response to some finely conceived impulse.

The recognition of this, of the something fine and splendid that had
stamped itself on Garth's features, came to Sara in a sudden blazoning
flash of recognition. This was not--could not be the face of a weak
man or a coward! And for one transcendent moment of glorious belief
sheer happiness overwhelmed her.

But, in the same instant, the damning facts stormed up at her--the
verdict of the court-martial, the details Elisabeth had supplied,
above all, Garth's own inability to deny the charge--and the light of
momentary ecstasy flared and went out in darkness.

An inarticulate sound escaped her, forced from her lips by the pang of
that sudden frustration of leaping hope, and, hearing it, Garth turned
and saw her.

"Sara!" The name rushed from his lips, shaken with a tumult of
emotion. And then he was silent, staring at her across the little
space that separated them, his hand gripping the topmost bar of the
gate as though for actual physical support.

The calm of his face, that lofty serenity which had been impressed
upon it, was suddenly all broken up.

"Sara!" he repeated, a ring of incredulity in his tones.

"Yes," she said flatly. "I've come back."

She moved towards him, trying to control the trembling that had seized
her limbs.

"I--I've just come back from France," she added, making a lame attempt
to speak conventionally.

It was an effort to hold out her hand, and, when his closed around it,
she felt her whole body thrill at his touch, just as it had been wont
to thrill in those few, short, golden days when their mutual happiness
had been undarkened by any shadow from the past. Swiftly, as though
all at once afraid, she snatched her hand from his clasp.

"What have you been doing in France?" he asked.

"Nursing," she answered briefly. "Did you think I could stay here and
do--nothing, at such a time as this?"

There was accusation in her tone, but if he felt that her speech
reflected in any way upon himself, he showed no sign of it. His eyes
were roving over her, marking the changes wrought in the year that had
passed since they had met--the sharpened contour of her face, the too
slender body, the white fragility of the bare hand which grasped the
handle of the basket she was carrying.

"You are looking very ill," he said, at last, abruptly.

"I'm not ill," she replied indifferently. "Only a bit over-tired. As
soon as I have had a thorough rest I am going back to France."

"You won't go back there again?" he exclaimed sharply. "You're not fit
for such work!"

"Certainly I shall go back--as soon as ever Dr. Selwyn will let me.
It's little enough to do for the men who are giving--everything!"
Suddenly, the pent-up indignation within her broke bounds. "Garth, how
can you stay here when men are fighting, dying--out there?" Her voice
vibrated with the sense of personal shame which his apathy inspired in
her. "Oh!"--as though she feared he might wound her yet further by
advancing the obvious excuse--"I know you're past military age. But
other men--older men than you--have gone. I know a man of fifty who
bluffed and got in! There are heaps of back doors into the Army these
days."

"And there's a back door out of it--the one through which I was kicked
out!" he retorted, his mouth setting itself in the familiar bitter
lines.

The scoffing defiance of his attitude baffled her.

"Don't you want to help your country?" she pleaded. It was horrible to
her that he should stand aside--inexplicable except in terms of that
wretched business on the Indian Frontier, in the hideous truth of
which only his own acknowledgment had compelled her to believe.

He looked at her with hard, indifferent eyes.

"My country made me an outcast," he replied. "I'll remain such."

Somehow, even in her shamed bewilderment and anger, she sensed the
hurt that lay behind the curt speech.

"Men who have been cashiered, men who are too old--they're all going
back," she urged tremulously, snatching at any weapon that suggested
itself.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Let them!"

She stared at him in silence. She felt exactly as though she had been
beating against a closed door. With a gesture of hopelessness she
turned away, recognizing the futility of pleading with him further.

"One moment"--he stepped in front of her, barring her path. "I want an
answer to a question before you go."

There was something of his old arrogance in the demand--the familiar,
dominating quality which had always swayed her. Despite herself, she
yielded to it now.

"Well?" she said unwillingly. "What is it you wish to know?"

"I want to know if you are engaged to Tim Durward."

For an instant the colour rushed into Sara's white face; then it ebbed
away, leaving it paler than before.

"No," she said quietly. "I am not." She lifted her eyes, accusing,
passionately reproachful, to his. "How could you--even ask me that?
Did you ever believe I loved you?" she went on fiercely. "And if I did
--could I care for any one else?"

A look of triumph leapt into his eyes.

"You care still, then?" he asked, and in his voice was blent all the
exultation, and the wonder, and the piercing torment of love itself.

Sara felt herself slipping, knew that she was losing her hold of
herself. Soon she would be a-wash in a sea of love, helpless to resist
as a bit of driftwood, and then the waters would close over her head
and she would be drawn down into the depths of shame which yielding to
her love for Garth involved.

She must go--leave him while she had the power. Summoning up her
strength, she faced him.

"I do," she answered steadily. "But I pray God every night of my life
that I may soon cease to care."

And with those few words, limitless in their scorn--for him, and for
herself because she still loved him--she turned to go.

But their contempt seemed to pass him by. His eyes burned.

"So Elisabeth has played her stake--and lost!" he muttered to himself.
"Ah! Pardon!" he drew aside as she almost brushed past him in her
sudden haste to escape--to get away--and stood, with bared head, his
eyes fixed on her receding figure.

Soon a bend in the path through the fields hid her from his sight.
But, long after she had disappeared, he remained leaning, motionless,
against the gateway through which she had passed, his face immobile,
twisted and drawn so that it resembled some sculptured mask of Pain,
his eyes staring straight in front of him, blank and unseeing.

"Hullo, Trent!"

Miles Herrick, returning from the town to the hospital and taking,
like every one else, the short cut across the fields, waved a friendly
arm as he caught sight of Garth's figure silhouetted against the sky-
line.

Then he drew nearer, and the set, still face of the other filled him
with a sudden sense of dismay. There was a new look in it, a kind of
dogged hopelessness. It entirely lacked that suggestion of austere
sweetness which had made it so difficult to reconcile his smirched
reputation with the man himself.

"What is it, Garth?" Instinctively Miles slipped into the more
familiar appellation.

Trent looked at him blankly. It seemed as though he had not heard the
question, or, at any rate, had not taken in its meaning.

"What did you say?" he muttered, his brows contracting painfully.

Miles slung the various packages with which he was burdened on to the
ground, and leaned up leisurely against the gatepost. It was
characteristic of him that, although the day was never long enough for
the work he crowded into it, he could always find time to give a
helping hand to a pal with his back against the wall.

"Out with it, man!" he said. "What's up?"

Slowly recognition came back in the other's eyes.

"What I might have anticipated," he answered, at last, in a curious
flat voice, devoid of expression. "I've sunk a degree or two lower in
Sara's estimation since the war broke out."

Miles regarded him quietly for a moment, a queer, half-humorous glint
in his eyes.

"A man could hardly do less, could he?" he returned awkwardly. "But if
she did know--which she doesn't--it would make no earthly difference."

"Then--it's because you're not soldiering?"

"Exactly. I've not volunteered."

"Well"--composedly--"why don't you?"

Trent laughed shortly.

"That's my affair."

"With your physique you could wangle the age limit," pursued Miles
imperturbably.

"I should have to 'wangle' a good deal more than that,"--harshly.
"Have you forgotten that I was chucked from the Army?"

"There's such a thing as enlisting under another name."

"There is--and then of running up against one of the old crowd and
being recognized! It isn't so easy to lose your identity. I've had my
lesson on that."

Miles looked away quickly. The hard, implacable stare of the other
man's eyes, with the blazing defiance, hurt him. It spoke too
poignantly of a bitterness that had eaten into the heart. But he had
put his hand to the plough, and he refused to turn back.

"Wouldn't it"--he spoke with a sudden gentleness, the gentleness of
the surgeon handling a torn limb--"wouldn't it help to straighten
things out with Sara?"

"If it did, it would only make matters worse. No. Take it from me,
Herrick, that soldiering is the one thing of all others I can't do."

He turned away as though to signify that the discussion was at an end.

"I don't see it," persisted Miles. "On the contrary, it's the one
thing that might make her believe in you. In spite of that Indian
Frontier business."

Garth swung suddenly round, a dull, dangerous gleam in his eyes. But
Miles bore the savage glance serenely. He had applied the spur with
intention. The other was suffering--suffering intolerably--in a dumb
silence that shut him in alone with his agony. That silence must be
broken, no matter what the means.

"You'd wipe out the stigma of cowardice, if you volunteered," he went
on deliberately.

Garth laughed derisively.

"Cut it out, Herrick," he flung back. "I'm not a damned story-book
hero, out for whitewash and the V.C."

But Miles continued undeterred.

"And you'd convince Sara," he finished quietly.

A stifled exclamation broke from Garth.

"To what end?" he burst out violently. "Can't you realize that's just
the one thing in the world forbidden me? Sara is--oh, well, it's
impossible to say what she is, but I suppose most good women are half
angel. And if I gave her the smallest chance, she'd begin to believe
in me again--to ask questions I cannot answer. . . . What's the use? I
can't get away from the court-martial and all that followed. I can't
clear myself. And I could never offer Sara anything more than a name
that has been disgraced--a miserable half-life with a man who can't
hold up his head amongst his fellows! Yes"--answering the unspoken
question in Herrick's eyes--"I know what you're thinking--that I was
willing to marry her once. But I believed, then, that--Garth Trent had
cut himself free from the past. Now I know"--more quietly--"that there
is no such thing as getting away from the mistakes one has made. . . .
I'm tied hand and foot--every way! And it's better Sara should
continue to think the worst of me. Then, in the future, she may find
some sort of happiness--with Durward, perhaps." His lips greyed a
little, but he went on. "The worse she thinks me, the easier it will
be for her to cut me out of her life."

"Then do you mean"--Miles spoke very slowly--that you are--
deliberately--holding back from soldiering?"

"Quite deliberately!" It was like the snap of a tormented animal,
baited beyond bearing. "If I could go with a clean name, as other men
can---- Good God, man! Do you think I haven't thought it out--knocked
my head against every stone wall in the whole damned business?"

Miles was silent. There was so much of truth in all Garth said, so
much of warped vision, biased by the man's profound bitterness of
soul, that he could find no answer.

After a moment Garth spoke again, jerkily, as though under pressure.

"There's my promise to Elisabeth, as well. That binds me if I were
recognized and taxed with my identity. I should have to hold my peace
--and stick it all over again! . . . There's a limit to a man's
endurance."

Then, after a pause: "If I could go--and be sure of not returning"--
grimly--"I'd go to-morrow--the Foreign Legion, anyway. But sometimes a
man hasn't even the right to get himself neatly killed out of the
way."

"What are you driving at now?"

"I should think it's plain enough! Don't you see what it would mean to
Sara if--that--happened? She'd never believe--afterwards--that I'm as
black as I'm painted, and I should saddle her with an intolerable
burden of self-reproach. No, the Army is a closed door for me. . . .
Damn it, Herrick!" with the sudden nervous violence of a man goaded
past endurance. "Can't you understand? I ought never to have come into
her life at all. I've only messed things up for her--damnably. The
least I can do is to clear out of it so that she'll never regret my
going. . . . I've gone under, and a man who's gone under had better
stay there."

Both men were silent--Trent with the bitter, brooding silence of a man
who has battered uselessly against the bars that hem him in, and who
at last recognizes that they can never be forced asunder, Herrick
trying to focus his vision to that of the man beside him.

"No"--Garth spoke with a finality there was no disputing--"I've been
buried three-and-twenty years, and my resurrection hasn't been exactly
a success. There's no place in the world for me unless some one else
pays the price. It's better for every one concerned that I should--
stay buried."

Suddenly, Sara found herself saying the words aloud in the darkness
and solitude of the night.

Since her meeting with Garth, on her way to the hospital, every hour
had been an hour of conflict. That brief, strained interview had
shaken her to the depths of her being, and, unable to sleep when night
came, she had lain, staring wide-eyed into the dark, struggling
against its influence.

Little enough had been said. It had been the silences, the dumb,
passion-filled silences, vibrant with all that must not be spoken,
which had tried her endurance to the utmost, and she had fled, at
last, incontinently, because she had felt her resolution weakening
each moment she and Garth remained together--because, with him beside
her, the love against which she had been fighting for twelve long
months had wakened into fierce life again, beating down her puny
efforts to withstand it.

The mere sound of his voice, the lightest touch of his hand, had power
to thrill her from head to foot, to rock those barriers which his own
act had forced her to build up between them.

The recollection of that one perfect moment, when the serene austerity
of his face had given the lie to that of which he was accused,
lingered with her, a faint elusive thread of hope which would not
leave her, urging, suggesting, combating the hard facts to which he
himself had given ruthless confirmation.

Almost without her cognizance, Sara's characteristic, vehement belief
in whomsoever she loved--stunned at the first moment of Elisabeth's
revelation--had been gradually creeping back to feeble, halting life,
weakened at times by the mass of evidence arrayed against it, yet
still alive--growing and strengthening secretly within her as an
unborn babe grows and strengthens.

And since that moment on the moor, when her eyes had searched Garth's
face--his face with the mask off--the dormant belief within her had
sprung into conscious knowledge.

Throughout the long hours of the night she had fought against it,
deeming it but the passionate outcome of her love for the man himself.
She wanted to believe him innocent; it was only her love for him
which had raised this phantom doubt of the charges brought against
him; the wish had been father to the thought. So she told herself,
struggling conscientiously against that to which she longed to yield.

And then, making a mockery of the hateful thing of which he had been
accused, her individual knowledge of Garth himself rose up and
confronted her accusingly.

Nothing that she had ever known of him had pointed to any lack of
courage. It had been on no sudden, splendid impulse of a moment that
he had plunged into the sea and fought that treacherous, racing tide
off Devil's Hood Island. Quite composedly, deliberately, he had
calculated the risks--and taken them!

Once more, she recalled the vision of his face as she had seen it
yesterday, in that instant before he had perceived her nearness to him
--strong and steadfast, imprinted with a disciplined nobility--and the
repudiation of his dishonour leapt spontaneously from her lips.

"He didn't do it!"

She had spoken involuntarily, the thought rushing into words before
she was aware, and the sound of her own voice in the darkness startled
her. It seemed almost like a voice from some Otherwhere,
authoritatively assuring her of all she had ached to believe.

She lay back on her pillows, smiling a little at the illusion. But the
sense of peace, of blessed assuredness, remained with her. She had
struggled through the darkness of those bitter months of unbelief, and
now she had come out into the light on the other side. She felt
dreamily contented and at rest, and presently she fell asleep,
trustfully, as a little child may sleep, the smile still on her lips.

With morning came reaction--blank, sordid reaction, depressing her
unutterably.

Amid the score of trifling details incidental to the day's
arrangements, with the usual uninspiring conversation prevalent at the
breakfast-table going on around her, the mood of the previous night,
informed, as it had been, with that triumphant sense of exaltation,
slipped from her like a garment.

Supposing she were to tell them--to tell Selwyn and Molly--that,
without any further evidence, she was convinced of Garth's innocence?
Why, they would think she had gone mad! Regretfully, with infinite
pain it might be, but still none the less conclusively, they had
accepted the fact of his guilt. And indeed, what else could be
expected of them, seeing that he had himself acknowledged it?

And yet--that inner feeling of belief which had stirred into new life
refused to be repressed.

Mechanically she went about the small daily duties which made up life
at Sunnyside--interviewed Jane Crab, read the newspapers to Mrs.
Selwyn, accomplished the necessary shopping in the town, each and all
with a mind that was only superficially concerned with the matter in
hand, while, behind this screen of commonplace routine, she felt as
though her soul were struggling impotently to release itself from the
bonds which had bound it in a tyranny of anguish for twelve long
months.

In the afternoon, she paid a visit to the Convalescent Hospital. She
made a practice of going there at least once a day and giving what
assistance she could. Frequently she relieved Miles of part of his
secretarial work, or checked through with him the invoices of goods
received. There were always plenty of odd jobs to be done, and, after
her strenuous work in France, she found it utterly impossible to
settle down to the life of masterly inactivity which Selwyn had
prescribed for her.

Audrey greeted her with a little flurry of excitement.

"Do you know that there was a Zepp over Oldhampton last night?" she
asked, as they went upstairs together. "Did you hear it?"

Sara shook her head. The memory of the previous night surged over her
like the memory of a vivid dream--the absolute assurance it had
brought her of Garth's innocence, an assurance which had grown vague
and doubtful with the daylight, just as the happenings of a dream grow
blurred and indistinct.

"No, I didn't hear anything," she replied absently. "Did they do much
damage? I suppose they were after the munitions factory?"

"Yes. They dropped one bomb, that's all. It fell in a field, luckily.
But goodness knows how they got over without any one's spotting them!
Everybody's asking where our search-lights were. As for our anti-
aircraft guns, they've never had the opportunity yet to do anything
more than try our nerves by practicing! And last night a golden
opportunity came and went unobserved."

"The milkman was babbling to Jane about Zeppelins this morning, but I
thought it was probably only the result of overnight potations at 'The
Jolly Sailorman.' "

"No, it was the real thing--'made in Germany,' " smiled Audrey. "I
begin to feel as if we were quite the hub of the universe, now that
the Zepps have acknowledged our existence."

They paused outside the door of the room allotted to her husband's
activities.

"Miles will be glad to see you to-day," she pursued. "He's bemoaning a
new manifestation of war-fever among the feminine population of
Monkshaven. Go in to him, will you? I must run off--I've got a million
things to see to. You're not looking very fit to-day"--suddenly
observing the other's white face and shadowed eyes. "Are you feeling
up to work?"

Sara nodded indifferently.

"Quite," she said. "I shouldn't have come otherwise."

Miles welcomed her joyfully.

"Bless you, my dear!" he exclaimed. "You're the very woman I wanted to
see. I'm snowed under with fool letters from females anxious to
entertain 'our poor, brave, wounded officers.' Head 'em off, will
you?" He thrust a bundle of letters into her hands. Then, as she moved
toward the windows, and the cold, searching light of the wintry
sunshine fell full on her face, his voice altered. "What is it? What
has happened, Sara?" he asked quickly.

She looked at him dumbly. Her lips moved, but no sound came. The
sudden question, accompanied by the swift, penetrating glance of
Miles's brown eyes, had taken her off her guard.

He limped across to her.

"Not a stroke of work for you to-day," he said decisively, taking the
bundle of letters out of her hands. "Now tell me what's wrong?"

She looked away from him, a slow, shamed red creeping into her face.
At last--

"I've seen Garth," she said very low.

Herrick nodded. He knew what that meeting had meant to one of these
two friends of his. Now he was to see the reverse of the medal. He
waited, his silence sympathetic and far more helpful than any eager,
probing question, however well-intentioned.

"Miles," she burst out suddenly, "I'm--I'm wretched!"

"How's that?" He did not make the mistake of attributing her outburst
to a transient mood of depression. Something deeper lay behind it.

"Ah!" Miles stuffed his hands in his pockets and limped the length of
the room and back. In that moment, he realized something of the
maddening, galling restraint of the bondage under which Garth Trent
had lived for years--the bondage of silence, and, within his pickets,
his hands were clenched when he halted again at Sara's side.

"Why?" he shot at her.

She hesitated. Then she caught her breath a little hysterically.

"Why--because--because I just can't believe it! . . . I've seen a lot
since I went away. I've seen brave men--and I've seen men . . . who
were afraid." She turned her head aside. "They--the ones who were
afraid--didn't look . . . as Garth looks."

Herrick made no comment. He put a question.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I expect you think I'm a fool? I've nothing to go on--
on the contrary, I've Garth's own admission that--that he was
cashiered. And yet---- Oh! Miles, if he were only doing anything--now
--it would be easier to believe in him! But--he holds absolutely
aloof. It's as though he were afraid--still."

"Have you ever thought"--Herrick spoke slowly, without looking at her
--"what this year of war must have meant to a man who has been a
soldier--and is one no longer?" His eyes came back to her face
meditatively.

"How--what do you mean?" she whispered.

"You've only got to look at the man to know what I mean. I think--
since the war broke out--that Trent has been through the bitterness of
death."

"But--but he could have enlisted--got in somehow--under another name,
had he wanted to fight. Or he might have gone out and driven an
ambulance car--as Lester Kent did."

Sara was putting to Herrick the very arguments which had arisen in her
own mind to confound the intuitive belief of which she had been
conscious since that moment of inward revelation on Crabtree Moor--
putting them forward in all their repulsive ugliness of fact, in the
desperate hope that Herrick might find some way to refute them.

"Some men might have done, perhaps," answered Miles quietly. "But not
a man of Trent's temperament. Some trees bend in a storm--and when the
worst of it is past, they spring erect again. Some can't; they
break."

The words recalled to Sara's mind with sudden vividness the last
letter Patrick Lovell had ever written her--the one which he had left
in the Chippendale bureau for her to receive after his death. He had
applied almost those identical words to the Malincourt temperament, of
which he had recognized the share she had inherited. And she realized
that her guardian and Miles Herrick had been equally discerning.
Though differing in its effect upon each of them, consequent upon
individual idiosyncrasy, the fact remained that she and Garth were
both "breaking" beneath the strain which destiny had imposed on them.

With the memory of Patrick's letter came an inexpressible longing for
the man himself--for the kindly, helping hand which he would have
stretched out to her in this crisis of her life. She felt sure that,
had he been beside her now, his shrewd counsel would have cleared away
the mists of doubt and indecision which had closed about her.

But since he was no longer there to be appealed to, she had turned
instinctively to Herrick, and, somehow, he had failed her. He had not
given her a definite expression of his own belief. She had been
humanly craving to hear that he, too, believed in Garth,
notwithstanding the evidence against him--that he had some explanation
to offer of that ghastly tragedy of the court-martial episode. And
instead, he had only hazarded some tolerant suggestions--sympathetic
to Garth, it is true, but not carrying with them the vital,
unqualified assurance she had longed to hear.

In spite of this, she knew that Herrick's friendship with Garth had
remained unbroken by the knowledge of the Indian Frontier story. The
personal relations of the two men were unchanged, and she felt as
though Miles were withholding something from her, observing a
reticence for which she could find no explanation. He had been very
kind and understanding--it would not have been Miles had he been
otherwise--but he had not helped her much. In some curious way she
felt as though he had thrown the whole onus of coming to a decision,
unaided by advice, upon her shoulders.

She returned to Sunnyside oppressed with a homesick longing for
Patrick. The two years which had elapsed since his death had blunted
the edge of her sorrow--as time inevitably must--but she still missed
the shrewd, kindly, worldly-wise old man unspeakably, and just now,
thrown back upon herself in some indefinable way by Miles's attitude,
her whole heart cried out for that other who was gone.

She wondered if he knew how much she needed him. She almost believed
that he must know--wherever he might be now, she felt that Patrick
would never have forgotten the child of the woman whom, in this world,
he had loved so long and faithfully.

With an instinctive craving for some tangible memory of him, she
unlocked the leather case which held her mother's miniature, together
with the last letter which Patrick had ever written; and, unfolding
the letter, began to read it once again.

Somehow, there seemed comfort in the very wording of it, in every
little characteristic phrase that had been Patrick's, in the familiar
appellation, "Little old pal," which he had kept for her alone.

All at once her fingers gripped the letter more tightly, her
attentions riveted by a certain passage towards the end.

". . . And when love comes to you, never forget that it is the
biggest thing in the world, the one altogether good and perfect
gift. Don't let any twopenny-halfpenny considerations of worldly
advantage influence you, or the tittle-tattle of other folks, and
even if it seems that something unsurmountable lies between you
and the fulfillment of love, go over it, or round it, or through
it! If it's real love, your faith must be big enough to remove the
mountains in the way--or to go over them."

Had Patrick foreseen the exact circumstances in which his "little old
pal" would one day find herself, he could not have written anything
more strangely applicable.

Sara sat still, every nerve of her taut and strung. She felt as though
she had laid bare the whole of her trouble, revealed her inmost soul
in all its anguished perplexity, to those shrewd blue eyes which had
been wont to see so clearly through externals, piercing infallibly to
the very heart of things.

Patrick had always possessed that supreme gift of being able to
separate the grain from the chaff--to distinguish unerringly between
essentials and non-essentials, and now, in the quiet, wise counsel of
an old letter, Sara found an answer to all the questionings that had
made so bitter a thing of life.

It was almost as if some one had torn down a curtain from before her
eyes, rent asunder a veil which had been distorting and obscuring the
values of things.

Mountains! There were mountains indeed betwixt her and Garth--and
there was no way round them or through them! But now--now she would go
over them--go straight ahead, unregarding of the mountains between, to
where Garth and love awaited her.

No man is all angel--or all devil. Supposing Garth had been guilty
of cowardice, had had his one moment of weakness? She no longer cared!
He was hers, her lover, alike in his weakness and in his strength. She
had known men in France shrink in terror at the evil droning of a
shell, and then die selflessly that others might live.

"Your faith must be big enough to remove the mountains in the way--or
to go over them," Patrick had written.

And Sara, hiding her face in her hands, thanked God that now, at last,
her faith was big enough, and that love--"the one altogether good and
perfect gift"--was still hers if she would only go over the mountains.

The words, in staring white capital letters, had been chalked up by
some one on the big wooden double-doors that shut the world out from
Far End.

Sara stood quite still, gazing at them fixedly, and a tense white-heat
of anger flared up within her. Who had dared to put such an insult
upon the man she loved?"

"Coward!" No one had ever actually applied that term to Garth in her
hearing. They had skirted delicately round it, or wrapped up its
meaning in some less harsh-sounding tangle of phrases, and although
she had bitterly used the word herself, now that the opprobrious
expression publicly confronted her, writ large by some unfriendly
hand, she was swept by a sheer fury of indignant denial. It roused in
her the immediate instinct to defend, to range herself unmistakably on
Garth's side against a world of traducers.

With a faint smile of self-mockery, she realized that had this
flagrant insult been leveled at him in the beginning, had her first
knowledge of the black shadow which hung over him been thus brutally
flung at her, instead of diffidently, reluctantly broken to her by
Elisabeth, she would probably, with the instinctive partisanship of
woman for her mate, have utterly refused to credit it--against all
reason and all proof.

She wondered who could have done this ting, nailed this insult to
Garth's very door. The illiterate characters stamped it as the work of
some one in the lower walks of life, and, with a frown of annoyance,
Sara promptly--and quite correctly--ascribed it to Black Brady.

"I never forgits to pay back," he had told her once, belligerently.
Probably this was his notion of getting even with the man who had
prosecuted him for poaching. But had Brady realized that, in
retaliating upon Trent, he would be giving pain to his beloved Sara,
whom he had grown to regard with a humble, dog-like devotion, he would
certainly have refrained from recording his vengeance upon Garth's
gateway.

Surmising that Garth could not have seen the offending legend--or it
would scarcely have been left for all who can to read--Sara whipped
out her handkerchief and set to work to rub it off. He should not see
it if she could help it!

But Black Brady had done his work very thoroughly, and she was still
diligently scrubbing at it with an inadequate piece of cambric when
she heard steps behind her, and wheeling round, found herself
confronted by Garth himself.

His eyes rested indifferently and without surprise upon the chalked-up
words, then turned to Sara's face inquiringly.

"Why are you doing that?" he asked. "Is--cleaning gates the latest
form of war-work?"

Sara, her face scarlet, answered reluctantly.

"I didn't want you to see it."

A curious expression flashed into his eyes.

"I saw it--two hours ago."

"And you left it there?"--with amazement.

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

And in that moment the long struggle in Sara's heart ended, and she
answered out of the fullness of the faith that was in her.

"No! It is not true! I've been a fool to believe it for an instant.
But I'm one no longer. I don't believe it." She paused, then, very
deliberately and steadily, she put her question.

"Garth--tell me, were you ever guilty of cowardice?"

"The court-martial thought so."

Sara's foot tapped impatiently on the ground.

"Please answer my question," she said quickly.

But he remained unmoved.

"Elisabeth Durward has surely supplied you with all the information on
that subject which you require," he said in expressionless tones, and
Sara was conscious anew of the maddening feeling of impotence with
which a contest of wills between herself and Garth never failed to
imbue her.

"Garth"--there was appeal in her voice, yet it was still very steady
and determined--"I want to know what you say about it. What
Elisabeth--or any one else--may say, doesn't matter any longer."

Something in the quiet depth of emotion in her voice momentarily broke
through his guard. He made an involuntary movement towards her, then
checked himself, and, with an effort, resumed his former detached
manner.

"More important than anything either I, or Elisabeth, can say, is the
verdict of the court," he answered.

The deadly calm of his voice ripped away her last remnant of
composure.

"The verdict of the court!" she burst out. "Damn the verdict of the
court!"

"I have done--many a time!"--bitterly.

"Garth," she came a step nearer to him and her sombre eyes blazed into
his. "I will have an answer! For God's sake, don't fence with me any
longer! . . . There have been misunderstandings enough, reticences
enough, between us. For this once, let us be honest with each other. I
pretended I didn't care--I pretended I could go on living, believing
you to be what--what they have called you. And I can't! . . . I can't
go on. . . . I can't bear it any longer. You must answer me! Were you
guilty?"

He was white to the lips by the time she had finished, and his eyes
held a look of dumb torture. Twice he essayed to answer her, but no
sound came.

At last he turned away, as though the passionate question in her face
--the eager, hungry longing to hear her faith confirmed--were more
than he could bear.

"I cannot deny it." The words came hoarsely, almost whispered.

Her eyes never left his face.

"I didn't ask you to deny it," she persisted doggedly. "I asked you--
were you guilty?"

Again there fell as heavy silence. Then, reluctantly, as if the
admission were dragged from him, he spoke.

"I'm afraid I can give you no other answer to that question."

A light like the tender, tremulous shining of dawn broke across Sara's
face.

"Then you weren't guilty!" she exclaimed, and there was a deep,
surpassing joy in her shaken tones. "I knew it! I was sure of it. Oh!
Garth, Garth, what a fool I've been! And oh! My dear, why did you do
it? Why did you let me go on thinking you--what it almost killed me to
think?"

He stared down at her with wondering, uncertain eyes.

"But I've just told you that I can't deny it!"

She smiled at him--a smile of absolute content, with a gleam of humour
at the back of it.

"I didn't ask you to deny it. I asked you to own to it; I tried to
make you--every way. And you can't!"

"But--"

She laid her hand across his mouth--laughing the tender, triumphant
laughter of a woman who has won, and knows that she has.

"You needn't blacken yourself any longer on my account, Garth. I shall
never again believe anything that you may say against--the man I
love."

She stood leaning a little towards him, surrender in every line of her
slender body, and her face was like a white flame--transfigured,
radiant with some secret, mystic glory of love's imparting.

With an inarticulate cry he opened wide his arms and she went to him--
swiftly, unerringly, like a homing bird--and, as he folded her close
against his breast and laid his lips to hers, all the hunger and the
longing of the empty past was in his kiss. For the moment, pain and
bitterness and regret were swept away in that ecstasy of reunion.

Presently, with a little sigh of spent rapture, she leaned away from
him.

"To think we've wasted a whole year," she said regretfully. "Garth, I
wish I had trusted you better!" There was a sweet humility of
repentance in her tones.

"I don't see why you should trust me now," he rejoined quietly. "The
facts remain as before."

"Only that the verdict of the court-martial was wrong," she said
swiftly. "There was some horrible mistake. I am sure of it--I know it!
Garth!--after a moment's pause--"are you going to tell me everything?
I have the right to know--haven't I?--now that I'm going to be your
wife."

She felt the clasp of his arms relax, and, looking up quickly, she saw
his face suddenly revert to its old lines of weariness. Slowly,
reluctantly, he drew away from her.

"Garth!" There was a shrilling note of apprehension in her voice.
"Garth! What is it? Why do you look like that?"

It was a full minute before he answered. When he did, he spoke
heavily, as one who knows that his next words will dash all the joy
out of life.

"Because," he said quietly, "I can no more tell you anything now than
I could before. I can't clear myself, Sara!"

Her eyes were fixed on his.

"Do you mean--you will never be able to?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, I mean that."

"Answer me one more question, Garth. Is it that you cannot--or will
not clear yourself?"

"I must not," he replied steadily. "I am not the only one concerned
in the matter. There is some one to whom I owe it to be silent. Honour
forbids that I should even try to clear myself. Now you know all--all
that I can ever tell you."

"Who is it?" The question leaped from her, and Garth's answer came
with an irrevocability of refusal there was no combating.

"That I cannot tell you--or any one."

Sara's mouth twitched. Her face was very white, but her eyes were
shining.

"And you have borne this--all these years?" she said. "You have known
that you could clear yourself and have refrained?"

"There was no choice," he answered quietly. "I took on a certain
liability--years ago, and because it has turned out to be a much
heavier liability than I anticipated gives me no excuse for
repudiating it now."

For a moment Sara hid her face in her hands. When she uncovered it
again there was something almost akin to awe in her eyes.

"Will you ever forgive me, Garth, for doubting you?" she whispered.

"Forgive you?" He smiled. "What else could you have done, sweetheart?
I don't know, even now, why you believe in me," he added wonderingly.

"Just because--" she began, and fell silent, realizing that her belief
had no reason, but was founded on the intuitive knowledge of a love
that has suffered and won out on the other side.

When next she spoke it was with the simple, frank directness
characteristic of her.

"Thank God that I can prove that I do trust you--absolutely. When will
you marry me, Garth?"

"When will I marry you?" He repeated the words slowly, as though they
conveyed no meaning to him.

"Yes. I want every one to know, to see that I believe in you. I want
to stand at your side--go shares. Do you remember, once, how we
settled that married life meant going shares in everything--good and
bad?" She smiled a little at the remembrance drawn from the small
store of memories that was all her few days of unclouded love had
given her. "I want--my share, Garth."

For a moment he was silent. Then he spoke, and the quiet finality of
his tones struck her like a blow.

"We can never marry, Sara."

"Never--marry!" she repeated dazedly. Quick fear seized her, and she
rushed on impetuously: "Then you haven't forgiven me, after all--you
don't believe that I trust you! Oh! How can I make you know that I
do? Garth--"

"Oh, my dear," he interrupted swiftly. "Don't misunderstand me. I know
that you believe in me now--and I thank God for it! And as for
forgiveness, as I told you, I have nothing to forgive. You'd have had
need of the faith that removes mountains"--Sara started at the
repetition of Patrick's very words--"to have believed in me under the
circumstances." He paused a moment, and when he spoke again there was
something triumphant in his tones--a serene gladness and contentment.
"You and I, beloved, are right with each other--now and always.
Nothing can ever again come between us to divide us as we have been
divided this last year. But, none the less," and his voice took on a
steadfast note of resolve, "I cannot marry you. I thought I could--I
thought the past had sunk into oblivion, and that I might take the
gift of love you offered me. . . . But I was wrong."

"No! No! You were not wrong!" She was clinging to him in a sudden
terror that even now their happiness was slipping from them. "The past
has nothing to say to you and me. It can't come between us. . . . You
have only to take me, Garth"--tremulously. "Let me show that my love
is stronger than ill repute. Let me come to you and stand by you as
your wife. The past can't hurt us, then!"

He shook his head.

"The past never loses its power to hurt," he answered. "I've learned
that. As far as the world you belong to is concerned, I'm finished,
and I won't drag the woman I love through the same hell I've been
through. That's what it would mean, you know. You would be singled
out, pointed at, as the wife of a man who was chucked out of the
Service. There would be no place in the world for you. You would be
ostracized--because you were my wife."

"I shouldn't care," she urged. "Surely I can bear--what you have
borne? . . . I shouldn't mind--anything--so long as we were together."

He drew her close to him, his lips against her hair.

"Beloved!" he said, a great wonder in his voice. "Oh! Little brave
thing! What have I ever done that you should love me like that?"

Sara winked away a tear, and a rather tremulous smile hovered round
her mouth.

He lifted his bent head, his eyes gazing straight ahead of him, as
though envisioning the lonely future and defying it.

"No," he said resolutely. "No. God helping me, I will never marry you,
Sara. I have--no right to marry. It could only bring you misery. Dear,
I must shield you, even from yourself--from your own big, generous
impulses which would let you join your life to mine. . . . Love is
denied to us--denied through my own act of long ago. But if you'll
give me friendship. . . ." She could sense the sudden passionate
entreaty behind the words. "Sara! Friendship is worth while--such
friendship as ours would be! Are you brave enough, strong enough, to
give me that--since I may not ask for more?"

There was a long silence, while Sara lay very still against his
breast, her face hidden.

In that silence, her spirit met and faced the ultimate issue--for
there was that in Garth's voice which told her that his decision not
to marry her was immutable. Could she--oh God!--could she give him
what he asked? Give only part to the man to whom she longed to give
all that a woman has to give? It would be far easier to go away--to
put him out of her life for ever.

And yet--he asked this of her! He needed something that she could
still give--the comradeship which was all that they two might ever
know of love. . . .

When at last she raised her face to his, it was ashen, but her small
chin was out-thrust, her eyes were like stars, and the grip of her
slim hands on his shoulders was as iron.

"I'm strong enough to give you anything that you want," she said
quietly.

She had made the supreme sacrifice; she was ready to be his friend.

A sad and wistful gravity hung about their parting. Their lips met and
clung together, but it was in a kiss of renunciation, not of passion.

Tim was home on sick leave, and, after two perfect weeks of reunion,
Elisabeth had written to ask if he might come down to Sunnyside,
suggesting that the sea-breezes might advance his convalescence.

"I wonder Mrs. Durward cares to spare him," commented Selwyn in some
surprise. "It seems out of keeping with her general attitude. However,
we shall be delighted to have him here. Write and say so, will you,
Sara?"

Sara acquiesced briefly, flushing a little. She thought she could read
the motive at the back of Elisabeth's proposal--the spirit which,
putting up a gallant fight even in the very face of defeat, could make
yet a final effort to secure success by throwing Tim and the woman he
loved together in the dangerously seductive intimacy of the same
household.

But Sara had no fear that Tim would avail himself of the opportunity
thus provided in the way Elisabeth doubtless hoped he might. That
matter had been finally settled between herself and him before he went
to France, and she knew that he would never again ask her to be his
wife. So she wrote to him serenely, telling him to come down to
Monkshaven as soon as he liked; and a few days later found him
installed at Sunnyside, nominally under Dr. Selwyn's care.

He was the same unaffected, spontaneous Tim as of yore, and hugely
embarrassed by any reference to his winning of the Military Cross,
firmly refusing to discuss the manner of it, even with Sara.

"I just got on with my job--like dozens of other fellows," was all he
would say.

It was from a brother officer that Sara learned, later, than Tim had
"got on with his job" under a hellish enemy fire, in spite of being
twice wounded; and had thus saved the immediate situation in his
vicinity--and, incidentally, the lives of many of his comrades.

He seemed to Sara to have become at once both older and younger than
in former days. He had all the hilarious good spirits evinced by nine
out of ten of the boys who came home on leave--the cheery capacity to
laugh at the hardships and dangers of the front, to poke good-natured
fun at "old Fritz" and to make a jest of the German shells and the
Flanders mud, treating the whole great adventure of war as though it
were the finest game invented.

Yet back of the mirth and laughter in the blue eyes lurked something
new and strange and grave--inexpressibly touching--that indefinable
something which one senses shrinkingly in the young eyes of the boys
who have come back.

It hurt Sara somehow--that look of which she caught glimpses now and
then, in quiet moments, and she set herself to drive it away, or, at
least, to keep it at bay as much as possible, by filling every
available moment with occupation or amusement.

"I don't want him to think about what it was like--out there," she
told Molly. "His eyes make my heart ache, sometimes. They're too young
to have seen--such things. Suggest something we can play at to-day!"

So they threw themselves, heart and soul, into the task of
entertaining Tim, and, since he was very willing to be entertained,
the weeks at Sunnyside slipped by in a little whirl of gaiety, winding
up with a badminton tournament, at which Tim--whose right arm had not
yet quite recovered from the effects of the German bullet it had
stopped--played a left-handed game, and triumphantly maneuvered
himself and his partner into the semi-finals.

Probably--leniently handicapped, as they were, in the circumstances--
they would have won the tournament, but that, unluckily, in leaping to
reach a shuttle soaring high above his head, Tim somehow missed his
footing and came down heavily, with his leg twisted underneath him.

"Broken ankle," announced Selwyn briefly, when he had made his
examination.

Tim opened his eyes--he had lost consciousness, momentarily, from the
pain.

"Damn!" he observed succinctly. "That'll make it the very devil of a
time before I can get back to France!" Then, to Sara, who could be
heard murmuring something about writing to Elisabeth: "Not much, old
thing, you don't! She'd fuss herself, no end. Just write--and say--
it's a sprain." And he promptly fainted again.

They got him back to Sunnyside while he was still unconscious, and
when he returned to an intelligent understanding of material matters,
he found himself in bed, with a hump-like excrescence in front of him
keeping the weight of the bedclothes from the injured limb.

"Did I faint?" he asked morosely.

"Yes. Lucky you did, too," responded Sara cheerfully. "Doctor Dick
rigged your ankle up all nice and comfy without your being any the
wiser."

They talked for a little, and presently Tim, whose eyelids had been
blinking somnolently for some time, gave vent to an unmistakable yawn.

"I'm--I'm confoundedly sleepy," he murmured apologetically.

"Then go to sleep," came promptly from Sara. "It's quite the best
thing you can do. I'll run off and write a judicious letter to
Elisabeth--about your sprain"--smiling.

With a glance round to see that he had candle, matches, and a hand-
bell within reach, she turned out the lamp and slipped quietly away.
Tim was asleep almost before she had quitted the room.

It was several hours later when Sara sat up in bed, broad awake, in
response to the vigorous shaking that some one was administering to
her.

She opened her eyes to the yellow glare of a candle. Behind the glare
materialized a vision of Jane Crab, attired in a red flannel dressing-
gown, and with her hair tightly strained into four skimpy plaits which
stuck out horizontally from her head like the surviving rays of a
badly damaged halo.

"Miss Sara! Miss Sara!" She apostrophized the rudely awakened sleeper
in a sibilant whisper, as though afraid of being overheard. "Get up,
quick! They 'Uns is 'ere!"

"Who is here?" exclaimed Sara, somewhat startled.

"The Zepps, miss--the Zepps! The guns are firing off every minute or
two. There!"--as the blurred thunder of anti-aircraft guns boomed in
the distance. "There they go again!"

Sara leaped out of bed in an instant, hastily pulling on a fascinating
silk kimono and thrusting her bare feet into a pair of scarlet Turkish
slippers.

"One may as well die tidy," she reflected philosophically. Then,
turning to Jane--

"Where's the doctor?" she demanded.

"Trying to get the mistress downstairs. She's that scared, she won't
budge from her bed."

"Aye, I'd like to see them at their devil's work," she allowed fondly,
with a threatening "Just-let-me-catch-them-at-it!" intonation in her
voice.

Sara laughed, and they both repaired to Tim's room, encountering Molly
on the way and sweeping her along in their train. They found Tim
volubly cursing his inability to get up and "watch the fun."

"Look out and tell me if you can see the blighters," he commanded.

As Sara threw open the window, a dull, thudding sound came up to them
from the direction of Oldhampton. There was a sullen menace in the
distance-dulled reverberation.

Molly gurgled with the nervous excitement of a first experience under
fire.

"That's a bomb!" she whispered breathlessly.

She, and Sara, and Jane Crab wedged themselves together in the open
window and leaned far out, peering into the moonless dark. As they
watched, a search-light leapt into being, and a pencil of light moved
flickeringly across the sky. Then another and another--sweeping hither
and thither like the blind feelers of some hidden octopus seeking its
prey. There was something horribly uncanny in those long, straight
shafts of light wavering uncertainly across the dense darkness of the
night sky.

"Can you see the Zepp?" demanded Tim, with lively interest, from his
bed.

"No, it's pitch black--too dark to see a thing," replied Sara.

Exactly as she spoke, a brilliant light hung for a moment suspended in
the dark arch of the sky, then shivered into a blaze of garish
effulgence, girdling the countryside and illuminating every road and
building, every field, and tree, and ditch, as brightly as though it
were broad daylight.

"A star-shell!" gasped Molly. "What a beastly thing! Positively"--
giggling nervously--"I believe they can see right inside this room!"

" 'Tisn't decent!" fulminated Jane indignantly, clutching with modest
fingers at her scanty dressing-gown and straining it tightly across
her chest whilst she backed hastily from the vicinity of the window.
"Lightin' up sudden like that in the middle of the night! I feel for
all the world as though I hadn't got a stitch on me! Come away from
the window, do, miss----"

The light failed as suddenly as it had flared, and a warning crash,
throbbing up against their ears, startled her into silence.

"That's a trifle too near to be pleasant," exclaimed Tim sharply. "Go
downstairs, you three! Do you hear?"

Obedient to something urgent and imperative in the voices of both men
--something that breathed of danger--the three women hastened from the
room. Jane's candle flared and went out in the draught from the
suddenly opened door, and in the smothering darkness they stumbled
pell-mell down the stairs.

A dim light burning in the hall showed them Mrs. Selwyn cowering
against her husband, her face hidden, sobbing hysterically, and in a
moment Sara had taken Dick's place, wrapping her strong arms about the
shuddering woman.

"Go on!" she whispered to him. "Go and get Tim down!"

He nodded, releasing himself with gentle force from his wife's
clinging fingers, which had closed upon his arm like a vise.

Immediately she lifted up her voice in a thin, querulous shriek--

"No! Dick, Dick--don't leave me! Dick"--

. . . And then it came--sped from that hovering Hate which hung above
--dropping soundlessly, implacable through the utter darkness of the
night and crashing into devilish life against a corner of the house.

Followed by a terrible flash and roar--a chaos of unimaginable sound.
It seemed as though the whole world had split into fragments and were
rocketing off into space; and, in quick succession, came the rumble of
falling beams and masonry, and the dense dust of disintegrated plaster
mingling with the fumes of high explosive.

Sara was conscious of being shot violently across the hall, and then
everything went out in illimitable black darkness.

The anguished tones pierced through the black curtain which had
suddenly cut away the outer world from Sara's consciousness, and she
opened her eyes obediently, to find herself looking straight into
Garth's face bent above her--a sickly white in the yellow glare of the
hurricane lamp he was holding.

"Are you hurt?" His voice came again insistently, sharp with hideous
fear.

She sat up, breathing rather fast.

"No," she said, as though surprised. "I'm not hurt--not the least
bit."

With Garth's help, she struggled to her feet and stood upright--rather
shakily, it is true, but still able to accomplish the feat without
much difficulty. She began to laugh weakly--a little helplessly.

"I think--I think I've only had my wind knocked out," she said. Then,
as gradually the comprehension of events returned to her: "The others?
Who's hurt? Oh, Garth! Is any one--killed?"

"No, no one, thank God!" He reassured her hastily. His arm went round
her, and for a moment their lips met in a silent passion of
thanksgiving.

"But you--how did you come here?" she asked, as they drew apart once
more. "You . . . weren't . . . here?"--her brows contracting in a
puzzled frown as she endeavoured to recall the incidents immediately
preceding the bombing of the house. "We'd--we'd just gone to bed."

"I was dining with the Herricks. The raid began just as I was leaving
them, so Judson and I drove straight on here instead of going home."

"I'm not far off," came Selwyn's voice, from the mouth of a dark
cavity that had once been the study doorway. "Come over here--but step
carefully. The floor's strewn with stuff."

Garth piloted Sara skillfully across the debris that littered the
floor, and they joined the group of shadowy figures huddled together
in the doorless study.

" 'Ware my arm!" warned Selwyn, as they approached. "It's broken,
confound it!" He seemed, for the moment, oblivious of the pain.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Selwyn, finding herself physically intact, was keeping
up an irritating moaning, interspersed with pettish diatribes against
a Government that could be so culpably careless as to permit her to be
bombed out of house and home; whilst Jane Crab, who had found and lit
a candle, and recklessly stuck it to the table in its own grease, was
bluffly endeavouring to console her.

For once Selwyn's saint-like patience failed him.

"Oh, shut up whining, Minnie!" he exclaimed forcefully. "It would be
more to the point if you got down on your knees and said thank you to
some one or something instead of grousing like that!"

He turned hurriedly to Garth, who was flashing his lantern hither and
thither, locating the damage done.

"Look here," he said. "Young Durward's upstairs. We must get him
down."

"Where does he sleep? One side of the house is staved in."

"He's not that side, thank Heaven! But the odds are he's badly hurt.
And, anyway, he's helpless. I was just going up to carry him down when
that damned bomb got us."

Garth swung out into the hall and sent a ringing shout up through the
house. An instant later Tim's answer floated down to them.

"All serene! Can't move!"

Again Garth sent his voice pealing upwards--

"Hold on! We'll be with you in a minute."

He turned to Selwyn.

"I'll go up," he said. "You can't do anything with that arm of yours."

"I can help," maintained Dick stoutly.

Garth shook his head.

"No. If you slipped amongst the mess there'll be up there, I'd have
two cripples on my hands instead of one. You stay here and look after
the women--and get one of them to fix you up a temporary splint."

The two men moved forward, the women pressing eagerly behind them;
then, as the light from Garth's lantern steamed ahead there came an
instantaneous outcry of dismay.

The whole stairway was twisted and askew. It had a ludicrously drunken
look, as though it were lolling up against the wall--like a staircase
in a picture of which the perspective is all wrong.

"They'll have to"--laconically. "That top story may go at any minute.
It would collapse like a pack of cards if another bomb fell near
enough for us to feel the concussion. And young Durward would have
about as much chance as a rat in a trap."

A silence descended on the little group of anxious people as he
finished speaking. The gravity of Tim's position suddenly revealed
itself--and the danger involved by an attempt at rescue.

Sara drew close to Garth's side.

"Must you go, Garth?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be safe to wait till
help comes?"

"Tim isn't safe there, actually five minutes. The floors may hold--
or they mayn't! I must go, sweet."

She caught his hand and held it an instant against her cheek. Then--

"Go, dear," she whispered. "Go quickly. And oh!--God keep you!"

He was gone, picking his way gingerly, treading as lightly as a cat,
so that the wrenched stairway hardly creaked beneath his swift, lithe
steps.

Once there came the sudden rattle of some falling scrap of broken
plaster, and Sara, leaning with closed eyes and white, set face,
against the framework of a doorway, shivered soundlessly.

Soon he had disappeared round the distorted head of the staircase, and
those who were watching could only discern the bobbing glimmer of the
light he carried mounting higher and higher.

Then--after an interminable time, it seemed--there came the sound of
voices . . . he had found Tim . . . a pause . . . then again a short,
quick speech and the word "Right?" drifted faintly down to the
strained ears below.

Unconsciously Sara's hands had clenched themselves, and the nails were
biting into the flesh of her palms. But she felt no pain. Her whole
being seemed concentrated into the single sense of hearing as she
waited there in the candle-lit gloom, listening for every tiny sound,
each creak of a board, each scattering of loosened plaster, which
might herald danger.

Another eternity crawled by before, at length, Garth reappeared once
more round the last bend of the staircase. Tim was lying across his
shoulder, his injured leg hanging stiffly down, and in his hand he
grasped the lantern, while both Garth's arms supported him.

Sara's eyes had opened now and fixed themselves intently on the
burdened figure of the man she loved, as, with infinite caution, he
began the descent of the last flight of stairs.

There was a double strain now upon the dislocated boards and joists--
the weight of two men where one had climbed before with lithe, light,
unimpeded limbs--and it seemed to Sara's tense, set vision as if a
slight tremor ran throughout the whole stairway.

In an agony of terror she watched Garth's steady, downward progress.
She felt as though she must scream out to him to hurry--hurry! Yet
she bit back the scream lest it should startle him, every muscle of
her body rigid with the effort that her silence cost her.

Seven stairs more! Six!

Sara's lips were moving voicelessly. She was whispering rapidly over
and over again--

Again there came the familiar thudding sound of an explosion.
Somewhere another bomb, hurled from the cavernous dark that hid the
enemy, had fallen, and almost simultaneously, it seemed, a warning
thunder rumbled overhead like the menacing growl of a wild beast
suddenly let loose.

At the first low mutter of that threat of imminent disaster, Garth
sprang.

Gripping Tim firmly in his arms, he leaped from the quaking staircase,
falling awkwardly, prone beneath the burden of the other's helpless
body, as he landed.

And even as he reached the ground, the upper story of the house, with
a roar that shook the whole remaining fabric of the building, crashed
to earth in an avalanche of stone and brick and flying slates, whilst
the stairway upon which he had been standing gave a sickening lurch,
rocked, and fell out sideways into the hall in a smother of dust and
plaster.

Stumblingly, those who had been watching groped their way through the
powdery cloud, as it swirled and eddied, towards the dark blotch at
the foot of the stairs which was all that could be distinguished of
Trent and his burden.

To Sara, the momentary silence that ensued was in infinity of nameless
dread. Then--

"We're all right," gasped Trent reassuringly, and choked violently as
he inhaled a mouthful of grit-laden air.

In the same instant, across the murk shot a broad beam of light from
the open doorway. Behind it Sara could discern white faces peering
anxiously--Audrey's and Miles's, and, behind them again, loomed the
heads and shoulders of others who had hurried to the scene of the
catastrophe.

And when the reassuring answer reached the little throng upon the
threshold, a murmur of relief went up, culminating in a ringing cheer
as the news percolated through to the crowd which had collected in the
roadway.

In an amazingly short time, so it seemed to Sara, she found herself
comfortably tucked into the back seat of Garth's car, between him and
Molly. Judson, with Jane beside him, took the wheel, and they were
soon speeding swiftly away towards Greenacres, where Audrey had
insisted that the homeless household must take refuge--the remainder
of the party following in the Herricks' limousine.

It had been a night of adventure, but it was over at last, and, as
Jane Crab remarked with stolid conviction--

"The doctor--blessed saint!--was never intended to be killed by one of
they 'Uns, so they might as well have saved theirselves the trouble of
trying it--and we'd all have slept the easier in our beds!"

She had reached Greenacres--in response to Sara's letter, posted on
the eve of the raid--late in the afternoon of the following day, and
Audrey had at once taken her upstairs to see Tim and left them
together. And now, as she closed the door of his room behind her, she
leaned helplessly against the wall and her lips moved in a whispered
cry of poignant misery.

"Maurice! . . . Maurice saved him! . . . Oh, my God!"

Her eyes--the beautiful, hyacinth eyes--stared strickenly in front of
her, wide and horrified like the eyes of a hunted thing, and her hands
were twisted and wrung beneath the stress of the overwhelming
knowledge which Tim had so joyously prattled out to her. She could
hear him now, boyishly enthusiastic, extolling Garth with the eager,
unstinted hero-worship of youth, and every word he said had pierced
her like the stab of a knife.

"If ever a chap deserved the V.C., Trent does, by Jove! It was the
bravest thing I've ever known, mother mine, for he told me afterwards,
he never expected that the top story would hold out till he got me
away. He'd seen it from the outside first, you know! And there was I,
held up with this confounded ankle, and with a whole heap of plaster
and a brick or two sitting on my chest I thought I'd gone west that
time, for a certainty!"

And Tim chuckled delightedly, blissfully unconscious that with each
word he spoke he was binding upon his mother's shoulders an
insuperable burden of remorse.

It was Garth Trent who had saved her son--Garth Trent, to whom she
owed all the garnered happiness of her married life, yet whose own
life's fabric she had pulled down about his ears! And now, to the
already overwhelming magnitude of her debt to him, he had added this--
this final act of sacrifice.

With an almost superhuman effort, Elisabeth had forced herself to
listen quietly to Tim's account of his rescue from the shattered upper
story of the Selwyn's house--to listen precisely as though Garth's
share in the matter held no particular significance for her beyond the
splendid one it must inevitably hold for any mother.

But now, safe from the clear-sighted glance of Tim's blue eyes, she
let the mask slip from her and crouched against his door in
uncontrollable agony of spirit.

The sin which she had sinned in secret--which, sometimes, she had
almost come to believe was not a sin, so beautiful had been its fruit
--revealed itself to her now in all its naked ugliness.

Looking backward, down the vista of years, the whole structure of her
happiness appeared in its true perspective, reared upon a lie--upon
that same lie which had blasted Garth Trent's career and sent him out,
dishonoured, from the company of his fellows.

And this man from whom she had taken faith, and hope, and good repute
--everything, in fact, that makes a man's life worth having--had given
her the life of her son!

She dropped her face between her hands with a low moan. It was
horrible--horrible.

Then, afraid that Tim might hear her, she passed stumblingly into her
own room at the end of the corridor, and there, in solitude and
darkness, she fought out the battle between her desire still to
preserve the secret she had guarded three-and-twenty years, and the
impulse toward atonement which was struggling into life within her.

Like a scourge the knowledge of her debt to Garth drove her before it,
beating her into the very depths of self-abasement, but, even so, her
pride of name, and the mother-love which yearned to shield her son
from all that it must involve if she should now confess the sin of her
youth, urged her to let the present still keep the secrets of the
past.

The habit of years, the very purpose for which she had worked, and
lied, and fought, must be renounced if she were to make atonement. A
tale that was unbelievably shameful must be revealed--and Tim would
have to know all that there was to be known.

To Elisabeth, this was the most bitter thing she had to face--the fact
that Tim, for whose sake she had so strenuously guarded her secret,
must learn, not only what was written on that turned-down page of
life, but also what kind of woman his mother had proved herself--how
totally unlike the beautiful conception which his ardent boyish faith
in her had formed.

Meanwhile, the Herricks and their guests--"Audrey's refugees," as
Molly elected to describe the latter, herself included--had gathered
round the fire in the library, and were chatting desultorily while
they awaited Elisabeth's return from her visit to Tim's sick-room.

The casualties of the previous evening had been found to be augmented
by two, since Mrs. Selwyn had remained in bed throughout the day,
under the impression that she was suffering from shock, whilst Garth
Trent was discovered to have dislocated his shoulder, and had been
compelled to keep his room by medical orders.

In endeavouring to shield Tim, as they crashed to the ground together
from the tottering staircase, Trent had fallen undermost, receiving
the full brunt of the fall; and a dislocated shoulder and a severe
shaking, which had left him bruised and sore from head to foot, were
the consequences.

Characteristically, he had maintained complete silence about his
injury, composedly accompanying Sara back to Greenacres in his car,
and he had just been making his way out of the house when he had
quietly fainted away on to the floor. After which, the Herricks had
taken over command.

"I think," remarked Molly pertinently, "you might as well turn
Greenacres into an annexe to the 'Convalescent,' Audrey. You've got
four cases already."

The Lavender Lady glanced up smilingly from one of the khaki socks
which, in these days, dangled perpetually from her shining needles,
and into which she knitted all the love, and pity, and tender prayers
of her simple old heart.

"Mr. Trent is better," she announced with satisfaction. "I had tea
upstairs with him this afternoon."

"Yes," supplements Selwyn, "I fancy one of your patients has struck,
Audrey. Trent intends coming down this evening. Judson has just come
back from Far End with some fresh clothes for him."

Audrey turned hastily to her husband.

"Good Heavens, Miles! We can't let him come down! Mrs. Durward will be
here with us."

"Well?"--placidly from Herrick.

"Well! It will be anything but well!" retorted Audrey significantly.
"Have you forgotten what happened that day in Haven Woods? I'm not
going to have Garth hurt like that again! He may have been cashiered a
hundred times--I don't care whether he was or not!--he's a man!"

A very charming smile broke over Miles's face.

"I've always known it," he said quietly. "And--I should think Mrs.
Durward knows it now."

"Yes. I know it now."

The low, contralto tones that answered were Elisabeth's. Unnoticed,
she had entered the room and was standing just outside the little
group of people clustered round the hearth--her slim, black-robed
figure, with its characteristic little air of stateliness, sharply
defined in the ruddy glow of the firelight.

A sudden tremor of emotion seemed to ripple through the room. The
atmosphere grew tense, electric--alert as with some premonition of
coming storm.

The two men had risen to their feet, but no one spoke, and the brief
rustle of movement, as every one turned instinctively towards that
slender, sable figure, whispered into blank silence.

To Miles, infinitely compassionate, there seemed something symbolical
in the figure of the woman standing there--isolated, outside the
friendly circle of the fireside group, standing solitary at the table
as a prisoner stands at the bar of judgment.

The firelight, flickering across her face, revealed its pallor and the
burning fever of her eyes, and drew strange lights from the heavy
chestnut hair that swathed her head like a folded banner of flame.

For a long moment she stood silently regarding the ring of startled
faces turned towards her. Then at last she spoke.

"I have something to tell you," she said, addressing herself
primarily, it seemed, to Miles.

Perhaps she recognized the compassionate spirit of understanding which
was his in so great a measure and appealed to it unconsciously.
Selwyn, with sensitive perception, turned as though to leave the room,
but she stopped him.

"No, don't go," she said quickly. "Please stay--all of you. I--I wish
you all to hear what I have to say." She spoke very composedly, with a
curious submissive dignity, as though she had schooled herself to meet
this moment. "It concerns Garth Trent--at least, that is the name by
which you know him. His real name is Maurice--Maurice Kennedy, and he
is my cousin, Lord Grisdale's younger son. He has lived here under an
assumed name because--because"--her voice trembled a little, then
steadied again to its accustomed even quality--"because I ruined his
life. . . . The only way in which I can make amends is by telling you
the true facts of the Indian Frontier episode which led to Maurice's
dismissal from the Army. He--ought never to have been--cashiered for
cowardice."

She paused, and with a sudden instinctive movement Sara grasped
Selwyn's arm, while the sharp sibilance of her quick-drawn breath cut
across the momentary silence.

"No," Elisabeth repeated. "Maurice ought never to have been cashiered.
He was absolutely innocent of the charge against him. The real
offender was Geoffrey . . . my husband. It was he--Geoffrey, not
Maurice--who was sent out in charge of the reconnaissance party from
the fort--and it was he whose nerve gave way when surprised by the
enemy. Maurice kept his head and tried to steady him, but, at the
time, Geoffrey must have been mad--caught by sudden panic, together
with his men. Don't judge him too hardly"--her voice took on a note of
pleading--"you must remember that he had been enduring days and nights
of frightful strain, and that the attack came without any warning
. . . in the darkness. He had no time to think--to pull himself
together. And he lost his head. . . . Maurice did his best to save the
situation. Realizing that for the moment Geoffrey was hardly
accountable, he deliberately shot him in the leg, to incapacitate him,
and took command himself, trying to rally the men. But they stampeded
past him, panic-stricken, and it was while he was storming at them to
turn round and put up a fight that--that he was shot in the back." She
faltered, meeting the measureless reproach in Sara's eyes, and
strickenly aware of the hateful interpretation she had put upon the
same incident when describing it to her on a former occasion.

For the first time, she seemed to lose her composure, rocking a little
where she stood and supporting herself by gripping the edge of the
table with straining fingers.

But no one stirred. In poignant silence they awaited the continuance
of the tale which each one sensed to be developing towards a climax of
inevitable calamity.

"Afterwards," pursued Elisabeth at last, "at the court-martial, two of
the men gave evidence that they had seen Geoffrey fall wounded at the
beginning of the skirmish--they did not know that it was Maurice who
had disabled him intentionally--so that he was completely exonerated
from all blame, and the Court came to the conclusion that, the command
having thus fallen to Maurice, he had lost his nerve and been guilty
of cowardice in face of the enemy. Geoffrey himself knew nothing of
the actual facts--either then or later. He had gone down like a log
when Maurice shot him, striking his head as he fell, and concussion of
the brain wiped out of his mind all recollection of what had occurred
in the fight prior to his fall. The last thing he remembered was
mustering his men together in readiness to leave the fort. Everything
else was a blank."

Out of the shadows of the fire-lit room came a muttered question.

"Yes." Elisabeth bent her head in answer. "There was--other evidence
forthcoming. But not then, not at the time of the trial. Then Maurice
was dismissed from the Army."

She seemed to speak with ever-increasing difficulty, and her hand went
up suddenly to her throat. It was obvious that this self-imposed
disclosure of the truth was taking her strength to its uttermost
limit.

"I had better tell you the whole story--from the beginning," she said,
at last, haltingly, and, after a moment's hesitation, she resumed in
the hard, expressionless voice of intense effort.

"Before Maurice went out to India, he and I were engaged to be
married. On my part, it would have been only a marriage of
convenience, for I was not in love with him, although I had always
been fond of him in a cousinly way. There was another man whom I loved
--the man I afterwards married, Geoffrey Lovell--" for an instant her
eyes glowed with a sudden radiance of remembrance--"and he and I
became secretly engaged, in spite of the fact that I had already
promised to marry Maurice. I expect you think that was unforgivable of
me," she seemed to search the intent faces of her little audience as
though challenging the verdict she might read therein; "but there was
some excuse. I was very young, and at the time I promised myself to
Maurice I did not know that Geoffrey cared for me. And then--when I
knew--I hadn't the courage to break with Maurice. He and Geoffrey were
both going out to India--they were in the same regiment--and I kept
hoping that something might happen which would make it easier for me.
Maurice might meet and be attracted by some other woman. . . . I hoped
he would."

She fell silent for a moment, then, gathering her remaining strength
together, as it seemed, she went on relentlessly--

"Something did happen. Maurice was cashiered from the Army, and I had
a legitimate reason for terminating the engagement between us. . . .
Then, just as I thought I was free, he came to tell me his case would
be reopened; there was an eye-witness who could prove his innocence, a
private in his own regiment. I never knew who the man was"--she turned
slightly at the sound of a sudden brusque movement from Miles Herrick,
then, as he volunteered no remark, continued--"but it appeared he had
been badly wounded and had only learned the verdict of the court-
martial after his recovery. He had then written to Maurice, telling
him that he was in a position to prove that it was not he, but
Geoffrey Lovell who had been guilty of cowardice. When I understood
this, and realized what it must mean, I confessed to Maurice that
Geoffrey was the man I loved, and I begged and implored him to take
the blame--to let the verdict of the court-marital stand. It was a
horrible thing to do--I know that. . . . but think what it meant to
me! It meant the honour and welfare of the man I loved, as opposed to
the honour and welfare of a man for whom I cared comparatively little.
Maurice was not easy to move, but I made him understand that, whatever
happened now, I should never marry him--that I should sink or swim
with Geoffrey, and at last he consented to do the thing I asked. He
accepted the blame and went away--to the Colonies, I believe.
Afterwards, as you all know, he returned to England and lived at Far
End under the name of Garth Trent."

Such was the tale Elisabeth unfolded, and the hushed listeners, keyed
up by its tragic drama, could visualize for themselves the scene of
that last piteous interview between Elisabeth and the man who had
loved her to his own utter undoing.

She was still a very lovely woman, and it was easy to realize how
well-nigh bewilderingly beautiful she must have been in her youth,
easy to imagine how Garth--or Maurice Kennedy, as he must henceforth
be recognized--worshipping her with a boy's headlong passion, had
agreed to let the judgment of the Court remain unchallenged and to
shoulder the burden of another man's sin.

Probably he felt that, since he had lost her, nothing else mattered,
and, with the reckless chivalry of youth, he never stopped to count
the cost. He only knew that the woman he loved, whose beauty pierced
him to the very soul, so that his vision was blurred by the sheer
loveliness of her, demanded her happiness at his hands and that he
must give it to her.

"I suppose you think there was no excuse for what I did," Elisabeth
concluded, with something of appeal in her voice. "But I did not
realize, then, quite all that I was taking from Maurice. I think that
much must be granted me. . . . But I make no excuse for what I did
afterwards. There is none. I did it deliberately. Maurice had won the
woman Tim wanted, and I hoped that if he were utterly discredited,
Sara would refuse to marry him, and thus the way would be open to Tim.
So I made public the story of the court-martial which had sentenced
Maurice. Had it not been for that, I should have held my peace for
ever about his having been cashiered. I--I owed him that much." She
was silent a moment. Presently she raised her head and spoke in harsh,
wrung accents. "But I've been punished! God saw to that. What do you
think it has meant to me to know that my husband--the man I worshipped
--had been once a coward? It's true the world never knew it . . . but
I knew it."

The agony of pride wounded in its most sacred place, the suffering of
love that despises what it loves, yet cannot cease from loving, rang
in her voice, and her haunted eyes--the eyes which had guarded their
secret so invincibly--seemed to plead for comfort, for understanding.

It was Miles who answered that unspoken supplication.

"I think you need never feel shame again," he said very gently. "Major
Durward's splendid death has more than wiped out that one mistake of
his youth. Thank God he never knew it needed wiping out."

A momentary tranquility came into Elisabeth's face.

"No," she answered simply. "No, he never knew." Then the tide of
bitter recollection surged over her once more, and she continued
passionately: "Oh yes, I've been punished! Day and night, day and
night since the war began, I've lived in terror that the fear--his
father's fear--might suddenly grip Tim out there in Flanders. I kept
him out of the Army--because I was afraid. And then the war came, and
he had to go. Thank God--oh, thank God!--he never failed! . . . I
suppose I am a bad woman--I don't know . . . I fought for my own love
and happiness first, and afterwards for my son's. But, at least, I'm
not bad enough to let Maurice go on bearing . . . what he has borne
. . . now that he has saved Tim's life. He has given me the only thing
. . . left to me . . . of value in the whole world. In return, I can
give him the one thing that matters to him--his good name. Henceforth
Maurice is a free man."

"What are you saying?"

The sharp, staccato question cut across Elisabeth's quiet,
concentrated speech like a rapier thrust, snapping the strained
attention of her listeners, who turned, with one accord, to see
Kennedy himself standing at the threshold of the room, his eyes
fastened on Elisabeth's face.

She met his glance composedly; on her lips a queer little smile which
held an indefinable pathos and appeal.

"I am telling them the truth--at last, Maurice," she said calmly. "I
have told them the true story of the court-martial."

"You--you have told them that?" he stammered. He was very pale. The
sudden realization of all that her words implied seemed to overwhelm
him.

"Yes." She rose and moved quietly to the door, then face to face with
Kennedy, she halted. Her eyes rested levelly on his; in her bearing
there was something aloofly proud--an undiminished stateliness, almost
regal in its calm inviolability. "They know--now--all that I took from
you. I shall not ask your forgiveness, Maurice . . . I don't expect
it. I sinned for my husband and my son--that is my only justification.
I would do the same again."

Instinctively Maurice stood aside as she swept past him, her head
unbowed, splendid even in her moment of surrender--almost, it seemed,
unbeaten to the last.

For a moment there was a silence--palpitant, packed with conflicting
emotion.

Then, with a little choking sob, Sara ran across the room to Maurice
and caught his hands in hers, smiling whilst the tears streamed down
her cheeks.

"There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;
The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound;
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil,
So much good more . . ."
BROWNING.

"How can you prove it, Garth--Maurice, I mean?"--Selwyn corrected
himself with a smile. "You'll need more than Mrs. Durward's confession
to secure official reinstatement by the powers that be."

The clamour of joyful excitement and wonder and congratulation had
spent itself at last, the Lavender Lady had shed a few legitimate
tears, and now Selwyn voiced the more serious aspect of the matter.

It was Herrick who made answer.

"I have the necessary proofs," he said quietly. He had crossed to a
bureau in the corner of the room, and now returned with a packet of
papers in his hand.

"These," he pursued, "are from my brother Colin, who is farming in
Australia. He was a good many years my senior--and I've always
understood that he was a bit of a ne'er-do-well in his younger days.
Ultimately, he enlisted in the Army as a Tommy, and in that scrap on
the Indian Frontier he was close behind Maurice and saw the whole
thing. He got badly wounded then, and was dangerously ill for some
time afterwards, so it happened that he knew nothing about the court-
martial till it was all over. When he recovered, he wrote to Maurice,
offering his evidence, and"--smiling whimsically across at Kennedy--
"received a haughty letter in reply, assuring him that he was mistaken
in the facts and that the writer did not dispute the verdict of the
court. My brother rather suspected some wild-cat business, so before
he went to Australia, some years later, he placed in my hands properly
witnessed documents containing the true facts of the matter, and it
was only when, through Mrs. Durward, we learned that Maurice had been
cashiered from the Army, that the connection between that and the
Frontier incident flashed into my mind as a possibility. I had heard
that the Durwards' name had been originally Lovell--and I began to
wonder if Garth Trent's name had not been originally"--with a glint of
humour in his eyes--"Maurice Kennedy! Here's my brother's letter"--
passing it to Sara, who was standing next him--"and here's the
document which he left in my care. I've had 'em both locked away since
I was seventeen."

Sara's eyes flew down the few brief lines of the letter.

"Evidently the young fool wishes to be thought guilty," Colin
Herrick had written. "Shielding his pal Lovell, I suppose. Well,
it's his funeral, not mine! But one never knows how things may pan
out, and some day it might mean all the difference between heaven
and hell to Kennedy to be able to prove his innocence--so I am
enclosing herewith a properly attested record of the facts, Miles,
in case I should send in my checks while I'm at the other side of
the world."

As a matter of fact, however, Colin still lived and prospered in
Australia, so that there would be no difficulty in proving Maurice's
innocence down to the last detail.

"Do you mean," Sara appealed to Miles incredulously, "do you mean--
that there were these proofs--all the time? And you--you knew?"

"Herrick wasn't to blame," interposed Maurice hastily, sensing the
horrified accusation in her tones. "I forbade him to use those
papers."

"But why--why----"

Miles looked at her and a light kindled in his eyes.

"My dear, you're marrying a chivalrous, quixotic fool. Maurice refused
to let me show these proofs because, on the strength of his promise to
shield Geoffrey Lovell, Elisabeth had married and borne a son. Not
even though it meant smashing up his whole life would he go back on
his word."

"Garth! Garth!" The name by which she had always known him sprang
spontaneously from Sara's lips. Her voice was shaking, but her eyes,
likes Herrick's, held a glory of quiet shining. "How could you, dear?
What madness! What idiotic, glorious madness!"

"I don't see how I could have done anything else," said Maurice
simply. "Elisabeth's whole scheme of existence was fashioned on her
trust in my promise. I couldn't--afterwards, after her marriage and
Tim's birth--suddenly pull away the very foundation on which she had
built up her life."

Impulsively Sara slipped her hand into his.

"I'm glad--glad you couldn't, dear," she whispered. "It would not
have been my Garth if you could have done."

He pressed her hand in silence. A curious lassitude was stealing over
him. He had borne the heat and burden of the day, and now that the
work was done and there was nothing further to fight for, nothing left
to struggle and contend against, he was conscious of a strange feeling
of frustration.

It seemed almost as though the long agony of those years of self-
immolation had been in vain--a useless sacrifice, made meaningless and
of no account by the destined march of events.

He felt vaguely baulked and disillusioned--bewildered that a man's aim
and purpose, which in its accomplishing had cost so immeasurable a
price--crushing the whole beauty and savour out of life--should
suddenly be destroyed and nullified. In the light of the present, the
past seemed futile--years that the locust had eaten.

It was a relief when presently some one broke in upon the confused
turmoil of his thoughts with a message from Tim. He was asking to see
both Sara and Maurice--would they go to him?

Together they went up to his room--Maurice still with that look of
grave perplexity upon his face which his somewhat bitter reflections
had engendered.

The eager, boyish face on the pillow flushed a little as they entered.

"Mother has told me everything," he said simply, going straight to the
point. "It's--it's been rather a facer."

Maurice pointed to the narrow ribbon--the white, purple, white of the
Military Cross--upon the breast of the khaki tunic flung across a
chair-back--a rather disheveled tunic, rescued with other odds and
ends from the wreckage of Tim's room at Sunnyside.

"It needn't be, Tim," he said, "with that to your credit."

Tim's eyes glowed.

"That's just it--that's what I wanted to see you for," he said. "I
hope you won't think it cheek," he went on rather shyly, "but I wanted
you to know that--that what you did for my mother--assuming the
disgrace, I mean, that wasn't yours--hasn't been all wasted. What
little I've done--well, it would never have been done had I known what
I know now."

"I think it would," Maurice dissented quietly.

Tim shook his head.

"No. Had my father been cashiered--for cowardice"--he stumbled a
little over the words--"the knowledge of it would have knocked all the
initiative out of me. I should have been afraid of showing the white
feather. . . . The fear of being afraid would have been always at the
back of me." He paused, then went on quickly: "And I think it would
have been the same with Dad. It--it would have broken him. He could
never have fought as he did with that behind him. You've . . . you've
given two men to the country. . . ."

He broke off, boyishly embarrassed, a little overwhelmed by his own
big thoughts.

And suddenly to Maurice, all that had been dark and obscure grew clear
in the white shining of the light that gleamed down the track of those
lost years.

A beautiful and ordered issue was revealed. Out of the ruin and bleak
suffering of the past had sprung the flaming splendour of heroic life
and death--a glory of achievement that, but for those arid years of
silence, had been thwarted and frustrated by the deadening knowledge
of the truth.

Kindling to the recognition of new and wonderful significances, his
eyes sought those of the woman who loved him, and in their quiet
radiance he read that she, too, had understood.

For her, as for him, the dark places had been made light, and with
quickened vision she perceived, in all that had befallen, the
fulfilling of the Divine law.

"Sara----"

Her hands went out to him, and the grave happiness deepened in her
eyes.